


Haunted

by scandalpants



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: 70's love songs, Angst, More angst, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-01-08 07:23:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 193,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scandalpants/pseuds/scandalpants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem with being haunted is that you can never truly escape your ghosts. They dominate your memories, they invade your dreams, and they appear right in front of you when you least expect them. Even in the middle of an ocean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Monk

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing of Veronica Mars, but it owns me

[ ](http://imgur.com/lvOk5mq)

_I'm trying not to think about you_

Can't _you just let me be?_

  _~Almost Lover, by A Fine Frenzy_

* * *

  **Chapter One - Monk**

The deep blue spreads slowly, herding the sun over the horizon. Tonight's sunset isn't Midas; it grants only a touch of pink and orange before its benefactor slinks off to light up another part of the world. He picks a memory to match in tone, staying away from any after he moved to Neptune. He's not in the mood for those tonight.

He lets himself remember his mom, and a dreary day when he'd been ten and they were still living in Los Angeles. Just his mom and dad were home, his sister thankfully gone, staying with a friend for the weekend. The sky was a slate gray, the deluge of rain keeping him stuck in the house.

But he'd been so _bored._ His father, Aaron, was in one of his moods, the kind that usually kept Logan outside even when his stomach growled for food. Logan ran toward his room to get another Hot Wheel for the chase scene he was putting together on the living room rug.

Aaron lay on the couch, reading a script with his feet resting in Lynn's lap, and looked up. "Logan! When you come back here you will walk. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir." It didn't take a genius to hear the threat in his dad's voice. Logan forced his feet to slow, and made his way quietly to his room. He considered moving his setup to the bedroom, but it had already taken an hour to get just how he wanted it and didn't feel like starting over. He just had to remember to walk.

Moving in measured steps on the way back, he dropped to the rug and put the car in place, smiling at what he'd created. He started to execute the scene he pictured, making what he thought were realistic siren and explosion sounds in a low voice.

Logan was surprised when he felt his mom drop to the carpet behind him, curving herself over his back and whispering in his ear. "I have a great idea. Let's go build a fort in your room. Then I'll make popcorn and hot cocoa and we'll have a picnic in it."

He wanted to say no so he could finish his car chase idea but, catching the tight, angry expression his father wore, he realized he messed up. Maybe it was the noises he made, or the way he'd spread his toys over the carpet. It didn't matter why; Dad was mad again and it was his fault.

So, instead of arguing, he asked his mom to help him clean up his cars and they did just as she'd said. The fort they built was cozy and private, using chairs borrowed from the guest bedrooms to create a circle enclosed with sheets. They enjoyed the picnic she'd promised while playing hours of Go-Fish and War, marooned on their own island where Aaron didn't live.

That night she tucked him in and, like always, brushed the hair off his forehead before placing a kiss on it and whispering, "I love you, Logan."

Another memory tries to invade his mind. A night in a hotel lobby when he truly realized his mom was dead. He had bent over and grabbed his knees, and then—

_No. Not tonight. Go back. Remember Mom tucking you in._

And he does. Remembers again the motion of her brushing back his hair and then laying a kiss on his forehead. How both gestures made him feel loved. He remembers the soft way she looked at him when she said his name.

The sky now dark, he tucks the memory away where it belongs, with the name. He isn't Logan anymore. He hasn't been for a long time.

* * *

Heading down the stairs, he evaluates his options for the evening. He's not tired. There isn't a lot of entertainment on the _Penelope_ to begin with, and this is the last night of an extra- long run. Their route usually takes them on a three-week circuit; however, another tub in their four-reefer fleet is laid up for repairs so they've been going straight for almost six.

All the time at sea has exhausted the crew's meager options for amusement. He's read every book he brought at least twice, and is saving a third reread of _Lonesome Dove_ for tomorrow. The large flatscreen broke about a week ago so group movies are out, and he's not in the mood to watch one alone. There are a few games on the shelf in the mess, but he's played more chess with Carlos this month than he'd ever thought possible. As for the rest, this isn't the kind of crew that considers Milton Bradley a good time guy. Since payday isn't until tomorrow, everyone is too broke to play poker.

Not wanting to head for his berth just yet, he walks to the mess to see if there's any coffee. Most of the seventeen-man crew is hanging out in there, restless like he is. Once they drop off their load at Coquimbo in the morning, it will take the day to reach their home base in Antofagasta, in northern Chile. They'll get a week of freedom before it all starts again.

As he enters the room, only Carlos calls outs "Monk" in greeting. Nobody else looks up.

His first week on the ship some cleversmith teased him about taking a vow of silence and called him 'Monk'. The cleversmith left to work on another boat, but the name stuck.

He doesn't mind; it's as authentic as the name on his passport.

The coffee is fresh and hot. Monk grabs his java, then sits on the couch, closes his eyes and tilts his head back while listening to the others in the room.

Predictably, the guys' conversation is focused on how they will spend the time off. Captain Diego runs a dry ship so, as usual, the talk is as much about getting drunk as it is about getting laid. Monk hasn't had a drink in over eleven years, nor does he want one, so the discussion about alcohol bores him. As for getting laid, he doesn't get a lot of charge hearing about other people's sexual exploits. He seemed to outgrow that vicarious thrill about the time he watched the video of his—

_No. No. If you can't keep your head straight, go to bed._

Nobody says anything to him as he swallows down the last of his coffee and puts the mug in the bus bin. That doesn't bother him; he's used to slipping in and out of these rooms unacknowledged.

_Though, when they asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, somehow corporeal ghost never made it to the top of the list._

He hesitates a minute before going into his room. The evening is beautiful, though chilly. The cold doesn't bother him and he's spent more than one night sleeping on deck, staring up at the stars until he can't keep his eyes open. He discards that notion tonight, though. The mood the other men are in, they won't be settling in any time soon and their laughter carries.

He attempts to read a little, but gives up after a few minutes and turns out the light. His memories want to come to the surface and it's taking an inordinate amount of concentration to keep them locked away where they belong.

So he turns his thoughts to Eva. She's his salvation on nights like these, when he would otherwise give in to every thought that tries to pull him backward. Knowing he'll be with her tomorrow is the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. This job, this lifestyle, works for him on many levels, but he's happiest during the one week a month he gets to spend at home with her.

Nine years as lovers; hard to believe it's been that long. Monk feels content knowing he'll be with her soon. He'll stroke that dark skin and kiss those sweet, pink lips. He'll sink into her softness and fall asleep holding her sturdy form in his arms.

_One more day, sweetheart._

Moving his hand down, he strokes himself; sometimes that's all that's needed to help him sleep. He imagines Eva's large, warm hands touching him as his own hand moves. He pictures her soft, warm mouth lowering down on him. As the pressure builds he envisions that mouth replaced with her straddling him, dropping down and bucking her hips until he calls out her name.

As often happens when he's doing this alone, he has to push away memories of a smaller woman, one with fine, silky hair and petite hands that were always a little cold. The name that falls from his lips begins as Eva, but extends into something else. Saying it aloud is as much of a release as the rest of this act.

Sated, his mind finally stills and he drifts into a quiet sleep.

* * *

The next morning, they pull into Coquimbo and unload the shipment of Argentinian beef they're carrying. As reefer ships go, theirs is moderately sized, only about sixty meters long. The cargo doors are built into the side of the ship, and the stock is removed by forklifts, hand trucks, and a lot of old-style muscle. It takes a couple hours, but knowing they're almost home puts everyone in a last-day-of-school mood. Their planned replacement cargo is small, but before they begin loading it Diego waves Monk over.

Though he spent a fair amount of time at home with his mother, Diego also traveled the world on his father's ship. His accent is slight, and he oddly sounds more like he's from Southern California than South America.

"I've been fighting with Manny in the business office. We just got pulled for another job, and I couldn't get us out of it. Dammit! It'll add another five or six days between picking up our cargo, taking it to Los Angeles, and coming home. We'll drive straight through, with no stops. To pull that off, I need both you and Carlos to help me with taking shifts at the wheel. Es Bueno?"

_No. No "es bueno". You're from El Salvador, dude. I'd think you'd know what bueno means and use it correctly.._

Shit. Monk's been looking forward to spending the next week at his La Culpa beach house, surfing and hanging out with Eva. But he also knows that they need three helmsmen, so there's not a lot of options. He nods - Eva will understand. Diego rarely asks much of him beyond the norm, so he can delay his homecoming by five days.

"Ok. We only need a small crew; three for bow watch, and three to handle navigation and engine checks. There'll be help with the loading and unloading at both ends. I know Carlos will help drive, and Javier will stay on as cook."

_Javier cooking is a good thing? Tell me our cargo is frozen rats again and I may die of starvation._

Diego and Monk walk over to where the other men mill around, wondering why they aren't loading up their cargo yet. With a loud whistle, Monk gets their attention so Diego can speak.

"Change of plans. We got a one-time job. It means another five day stretch."

The resultant moans sound like the death rattles of a herd of zombies. Diego raises his hands and bobs them up and down as he lowers them.

"I know, I know. A couple navigators assigned to the _Angelica_ live here and agreed to help us out, but I need four more, three for bow watch and one navigator. There's good news and bad news. Good news, is double pay, and you'll get two weeks off when we're done. Whoever doesn't work it, another boat is coming through in an hour to take you home."

The men look more appeased and the grumbling lessens. Monk sees a couple of the crew raise their hands, and then lower them when Diego talks again.

"Now the bad news. Something went down; there is an American yacht about 45 knots from here. The crew and all the passengers are dead. The bodies need to go into cold storage and be transported to L.A. We just got hired for the job."

_Oh. That's one delightful little detail Diego left out. Who knew rat cargo could be topped?_

The men shift and shuffle their feet, looking at each other and whispering. This time no hands are raised. The desire to go home is pretty strong, but Monk suspects it isn't why the majority are hesitating. When they are out at sea conversation often turns to ghosts and legends. Spending even a few days with a boatload of bodies is enough to unsettle anyone, but especially a bunch of superstitious sailors. Monk feels a little queasy himself at the thought.

_I think I just figured out the perfect setting for another Reanimator sequel, though._

Diego nods, knowing their concerns as well as Monk does. "Come on guys. Double pay? Two weeks off? No volunteers?"

Not surprisingly, only a handful of guys put up their hands. Monk groans at the slim pickings. The navigator, Louis, is an okay guy. He's just a young man who doesn't yet have a family, so the extra sea time isn't an inconvenience. But the others are ones who drifted into this job because a conventional life just didn't suit them. They bring brawn, rather than brains, to the crew; Chuck is a braggart and an asshole, and George follows Chuck like he's a messiah. Winston, though a hell of a nice guy, has the IQ of a mollusk with special needs.

_And, oh yeah, there's that whole gullible, hypochondriac thing. I swear I could convince him he had water-elf disease._

They have to wait for the other two navigators to show up, and spend the time filling the freshwater tanks, disposing of garbage, and loading the food stock to get them through the next week. Since this jaunt wasn't planned, their choices are limited to what they can exchange with other ships docking, and the supplies loaned to them by their sister ship, _La Concepción,_ when it comes to pick up their leftover crew.

_Awesome, ragtag rations. What the hell are we going to do with currants? I have to remember to tell Javier not to get creative._

When they finally get underway, Monk hangs out in the helm while Diego points the ship toward their destination. Anxiety laces his boss' voice. "What the hell, Monk. It's good money and we just have to tell ourselves its meat, right? We transport meat all the time. There's no difference, right?"

_Nope. Absolutely no difference between people who were walking, talking, thinking human beings, and a bovine whose best skill was sticking its tongue entirely up its nose._

Monk shrugs; he won't interfere with this need to rationalize. They're three hours away from picking up their cargo regardless of how they feel about it, and it's obviously freaking Diego out a little. The guy is in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a face that looks like it was taken off, put out in the sun to dry, and then stretched back on. He's been a sailor most of his life and believes in much of the lore and legends that come with the life.

Diego lets out a huge sigh, and looks over at Monk. "They say it's over thirty bodies. I want the large port bay lined with visqueen to keep it from getting contamined."

_In case they leak? Okay, that's just gross._

Grimacing, Monk heads off to find his help. It's just after lunch, and at this time of day the crew that isn't working is usually hanging out in the mess. He can find a few loafers for the task.

Monk enters the room to a round of raucous laughter from four men sitting, their bodies oriented to face a portly fifth man, Chuck, who's standing with one foot on a chair, leaning toward the group. "…so I came home, naked, staggerin' drunk, and covered in puke. With a parrot I got, who knows where, sitting on my shoulder." His shoulders shake with laughter. "That's when she finally decided it was time to throw my ass out."

Stifling an audible snort, Monk avoids eye contact with anyone until he's sure he can keep his face from showing the derision he feels.

_I've seen you naked, Chuck. Something tells me the parrot wasn't the deciding factor in that decision._

He's heard this story before, as have most of the other men. But time moves slowly when you're trapped on a boat with the same people, travelling the same familiar waters, and even repeated stories break the monotony.

It's Chuck that notices him first. They aren't friends; Monk can't stand the man, but Chuck doesn't know that. Every snarky comment Monk's ever thought has been held back and, since Chuck understands subtlety about as well as he understands women, the other man is under the illusion they are actually friends. No matter, it makes things easier since they have to work together.

"Monk, hey man! We're talking about things we've done to piss off broads. Got a story to throw down?"

_How about I throw down a helpful tip, instead? Calling them broads might be what's pissing them off._

Monk stares at the man in answer. He has many stories to _throw down_ but he won't allow himself to think of them. Most of the time he doesn't even allow himself to think of the names of any of the women he's angered, except for Eva. Instead he distracts himself in these moments by imagining all the ways he'd like to hand Chuck's ass to him.

_Shoving a handful of live, baby eels into that hole on his faces. Make him keep his mouth closed until he swallows them. At least he'd be quiet for a few minutes._

After a couple of seconds of waiting, Chuck shakes his head. "Nah? Well, makes sense. Women are harder to piss off when you aren't talking to them or nailing them, right _Monk_?" Chuck laughter follows his own statement, as he looks at the other men to join in.

_Hmmm…_ wi _th women, my tongue has gotten me out of as much trouble as it's gotten me into. One more thing Chuck hasn't figured out, I guess._

No one else laughs at Chuck's taunt, instead shifting their eyes away and shuffling uncomfortably. Monk's used to this, too. He knows there's speculation about him. The crew accepts his muteness; it's not the strangest trait a sailor can have. They respect that he's a hard worker and Captain Diego's right hand. But that's all they know, and that bothers them. Rumors have gone around that he's everything from an assassin, to a descendent of Black Bart.

Whenever there's a new theory, Diego tells him and they share a laugh. The most recent is that he is a government spy. Why Monk would spend eleven years working on a refrigerated cargo boat, or which government he's working for, doesn't seem to matter.

But Diego keeps his secrets, the few he knows. Thinks the crew being scared keeps them in line. They initially bonded over their alcoholism, though Diego told let on he banned booze from the ship for religious reasons; no one wants to know their Captain and First Officer are drunks. Diego is the only one that knows about Eva and the beach house. And, due to a long night spent reading the abbreviated story Monk wrote down for him, Diego is the only one that knows Monk never leaves the ship when they're in the U.S. because he is an American, and his passport says something different.

Monk points to three men, George and the two navigators loaned to them by the other ship, and indicates they should follow him. George isn't bright, but the job ahead of them is easy. Though he doesn't know Connor or Vincente, he wants the opportunity to find out what kind of workers they are.

They grab the visqueen he indicates on the way, then follow him to the refrigeration bay and watch while he makes their needs clear. He's gotten good at using pantomime to give instructions. With the four of them working, they have the bay cleared and prepped like a kill room in just under two hours.

It's another hour before they spot a ship. It's a large luxury yacht, the kind that carries as many crew members as it does passengers. The Chilean police force is anchored nearby. Diego anchors the _Penelope_ as close as possible, though they are still several hundred yards away. Even a moderate sized reefer like theirs needs some lead room for stopping.

They use the winch to lower the smaller boat from the deck to the water. Diego selects two guys, Javier and Louis, to accompany him. Connor stays by the radio, relaying the plan after Diego reaches the other ship and checks in. The bodies are being photographed, tagged and bagged, then will be loaded six at a time onto the smaller boat Diego took with him. The rest of the crew stay on their reefer to unload and place the corpses into the refrigeration bay.

The day is beautiful; sunny and hot, with enough of a breeze to make it comfortable to stay outside. The guys start up a shuffleboard game, interrupted briefly when a helicopter flies over their head to land on the yacht. Within a few minutes Connor tells Monk that two FBI agents will accompany the bodies back to L.A. Berths need to be cleared and cleaned for them.

The FBI. _Fuck._ A yachtful of dead Americans. Rich, dead Americans. Monk should have realized the U.S. feds would be involved. A wake of fear goes through him, and he forces it down.

There's no reason they should care, or even ask about him; they're coming on the ship for the bodies and nothing else. Nobody pays attention to the bus driver. All he has to do is keep his mouth shut, which isn't a problem. His quiet, hidden life will stay just that.

Logan Echolls has been gone for a long time. He can damn well stay gone.

The ship's central hub consists of a four-story rectangle. The entire fourth story is a glass encased wheelhouse, with an upper deck that allows the bow watchman a 360 degree view around the ship. On the second and third levels are several berths that sleep two to three people each, and the master head and shower room. Lastly, the main deck level has another head, a mess, and a galley on one side. On the other side are a few storage rooms, and three private berths with outside entrances, one occupied by Monk, one normally occupied by their third driver, Carlos, and the last by Andy, a senior crew member who has gone home during this trip.

It's Carlos' and the Andy's rooms that will be used by the feds playing body escorts. Monk assigns Chuck the room prep since it will keep the guy out of his way for a while. Little is required other than making up the beds and going over the rooms with a dust cloth, but it takes five minutes to make this clear with motions. However, from experience Monk knows written instructions are wasted on Chuck.

_Incredible. Chuck can barely read, but acts like he's smarter than me because he can recite a limerick._

In another hour the first boatload comes over, accompanied by a couple of the cops from the Carabineros de Chile, and they spend the rest of the afternoon in staggered shifts. The fragrant, black body bags are unloaded from Diego's small boat via a net and pully system, then placed side by side on the floor in the cold storage.

It's surprising, the weight of a body after death, which makes the work hard. Also, their unfortunate guests have been gone long enough that there is no rigor. They have to have a man on each end of the bag, pulling as well as lifting, or it tends to sag at the middle. It takes a few awkward tries to figure this out, but they soon work out a rhythm.

The gruesome work naturally leads to talk of death; other bodies they've seen, family members who've died. Monk tunes them out.

_No way, man. Think about Eva or book. Think about surfing. DO NOT think about that._

After the last body is loaded, while the cops take the small boat back to the yacht, Monk and the other men go clean up, taking extra-long showers to wash away the imagined contamination of death.

Monk returns to his berth and his books. The smell from the bodies is still in his nasal cavities, removing any appetite for dinner. He pulls out a book at random and retreats into a fantasy world until it's time to watch the sun set.

* * *

Climbing the final flight of stairs to _his_ spot, a small observation deck on the third level, Monk is irritated to see a pair of dark boots on the floor above his head. This is unprecedented. Everyone knows he has staked out this corner to watch the sunset. Eleven years on this ship and he's been out here, alone, every fucking evening. And he likes it that way.

He doesn't ask for a lot. He gets the job done and keeps to himself, doesn't complain or cause any trouble. Diego depends on him to run the crew and he always delivers. The least they can do is leave him alone for thirty minutes a night. Just because they aren't doing their usual work right now doesn't mean this has changed.

Taking the last few steps, he comes around the wall to toss overboard whoever is sitting on _his_ bench. But it's not a member of the crew. Instead its confirmation he's finally managed to make himself go crazy. He'd thought allowing himself only this time each day to dwell on the past would keep him within the lines of sanity, but apparently he was wrong. Because if that were true, he wouldn't be imagining Veronica sitting there.

But, as frightened as he is for the trick his brain is playing on him, he's also grateful. She's been just a memory for so long that the mirage is welcome. Even if she looks different. Her hair is shorter and straighter than the last time he saw her, and a little darker. She's rounded out a bit more, adding a slight fullness to her face. There are faint lines at the corners of her eyes, her cheeks are wet with tears, and she wears a familiar, irritated expression.

_Funny, you'd think when I finally got around to hallucinating about her, she'd be smiling at me. But this actually makes sense, since the last time I saw her she was also crying._

Just as he's about to give her a smile, she snaps at him. "Trying to have a private moment here. Do you mind?"

Her talking is what makes him realize she's real. Thirteen years since he's heard her voice, and he's been remembering it wrong. In his mind it was just a decibel higher, and friendlier. But no, it was always like this; just low enough to be sexy, and brimming with snark.

He can't move. It's as if his feet are soldered to the floor and, instead of watching the sky, he's watching the golden, fading light on her skin.

_You found me. How did you find me? After everything I did to disappear! What the hell are you doing here?_

The words are caught, panic snagging them in his brain before they can ever attempt to leave his mouth.

She glares at him, her eyes narrowing in anger. Her hands wipe at her cheeks. "If you're going to insist on being here, can you at least turn around? You didn't pay for the show."

He has no idea what to say to her. She's owed an apology, but if he apologizes for one thing he'll have to apologize for a thousand. Better to wait for her to lay into him, and deal with her accusations individually.

But instead of the tirade he expects from her, she turns her head slightly, enabling her to avoid his gaze but still keep an eye on him. When she lifts her right hand to wipe at her cheek again her jacket falls open, revealing the gold badge on her hip.

_You're FBI? Shit. I don't know if I should be proud of you, or scared. Is this some fucked-up twist of fate, or did a little Mars-nipulation get you here?_

Either way she doesn't seem surprised to see him now. He doesn't know what to do with a Veronica that hesitates to yell a list of her grievances at him. Even the amount of time and distance that has separated them shouldn't make her treat him with the coldness of a stranger.

_Come on, Veronica. You always come into a fight with a set idea of how you want to bring me to heel. Let me know what you want from me._

While he's just continued to stare at her, not saying anything, color has filled her cheeks, creating a blush made of pique. Her silence, combined with obvious fury, has him impatient to get this started. Just as he's about to end this standoff, she stands up and stomps toward the stairs.

"Fine. It's all yours tonight. But I call dibs tomorrow."

He's frozen by this unexpected turn, watching as she glares at him for the first couple steps of her descent. Their eyes don't connect, and he doesn't know if it's because of the sunglasses he's still wearing, or because she's so angry at him. Long after she's gone he continues to watch the stairs, both hoping and dreading that she'll come back.

_Is this your game, Mars? Track me down in a place where you have me captive for the next three days, then make me sweat it out? If I know you, and I still might, I bet you won't make any part of this easy._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Book cover art courtesy of the AMAZING lilamadison11


	2. Good Morning

It takes almost an hour for the sky to darken and allow the constellations their turn on stage. Monk waits, but she never comes back. He knows it's his turn to make a move. It was his turn when she was standing in front of him. After all, she made it to South America, made it onto his ship. The least he can do is walk the couple flights of stairs to her room.

_So what are you waiting for? You know this routine. She lets you know she's pissed, you find her and fix it. She won't come begging for your apology._

He has every intention of leaving the deck and going to her room, but still he waits. Only once the last light has faded does he finally move, working his way down the ship to the head closest to his bunk. To a mirror.

He doesn't often look at himself. Living on a ship with twenty other men, vanity goes by the wayside. But, truthfully, he stopped looking long before he started this job. At first because of the period of the extreme, drunken self-loathing; he shattered any mirror within reach. Then because he just didn't care.

But now he looks. With the specter of Veronica fresh in his mind, he's nervous about the changes time has created since they last saw each other. He also has the strangest urge to primp, as if looking his best will appease her.

One look in the mirror changes his mind about doing any emergency repairs; there's too much to overcome. His hair hangs below his shoulders, dry and brittle from the wind, sun, and salt water. Like always he wears a ball cap, flattening the top of his mane and bushing out the rest.

Billy Gibbons would envy his beard. His eyebrows are overgrown and untamed, and his nose has a bump in the middle and is pushed to the side. The once-rounded cheeks have thinned over the years.

The little skin on his face that isn't covered by facial hair is tanned a dark brown, and more creased than his thirty-two years should warrant. A crescent shaped scar at his temple is deep, and pinker than the rest of his flesh. It pulls his right eye into a slight, permanent slant

Due to the physical demands of his job, and hours of boredom he fills with workouts, he now possesses ten more pounds of torso and arm muscle than he did as a teen. A long, jagged scar runs on top of his left forearm, bisecting a tattoo of a heart split almost entirely in half, forming the letter V in the break. He doesn't remember how he got either one, but he's kept the tattoo as a reminder of what a maudlin bastard he is when he drinks. And how little drinking helps him forget anything.

He's sure his fingers are thicker than they used to be. His hands are dry and calloused from the salt water and continuous rope handling.

There was a time he used an entire line of skin-care products, had a standing appointment at a hair salon, and wore cologne that was over two-hundred dollars an ounce. Now his only standards are to be reasonably clean, and run a brush through his hair and beard once a day.

He gives the mirror a false smile, and finds it camouflaged by the bush surrounding it. His front tooth is chipped at an angle, adding to his hillbilly appearance, but detracting from any similarity to the kid she knew. It should have been obvious, but the thought finally occurs to him that her behavior meant she didn't recognize him.

_Most people wouldn't look at me and see Logan Echolls, but_ her _? Could she really stand two feet away and not know me?_

He looks closely at his eyes, but because of the sunglasses she hadn't seen those. It's hard to say if that would make a difference, given the millions of people that have the same dark brown color. He puts his glasses back on and stares at his reflection, reassuring himself that, with the cap covering the distinctive mole on his forehead and his eyes hidden, he has no discernible feature left.

_Which means, if you stay away from her, and keep the hat and glasses on, you might get away with this._

Logan knows he should be relieved, and he is, but he's also disappointed and a little hurt. He can't imagine a scenario where he could look at her and only see a stranger. Most importantly, if she recognizes him, he won't have to make this fucking difficult choice.

_But it's not a choice, is it? Just because she's here, nothing's changed. If she has no idea who you are, you'll both be better off if she never figures it out._

If he spoke she'd recognize his voice, but that isn't an issue. Long ago, he woke up in a hospital bed with a broken jaw and suffering a nasty case of the DTs. At first he'd been in too much pain to attempt coherent speech, and nobody expected it of him. The two months he spent with his mouth wired shut he learned how much easier life is when you don't speak. Even after his jaw healed, he held onto muteness like a lifeline.

When you can't talk, people are less likely to ask personal questions. They don't seek your opinion, or often even acknowledge you're in the room. It's a huge change from the days he put on a show of wit to amuse himself and others. Sometimes he misses it - the ability to entertain or hurt with the sharpness of his tongue – but he's learned the value of holding back. You can't unsay something just because it was unkind, unfair, or taken wrong.

The little he needs to communicate, he gets by with some simple pantomiming and hand gesture. Most adapt to his form of communication relatively quickly. Once in a while he has to write out something to get it across, but few things are worth the hassle.

The real reason he stopped talking, though, is that it ostracized him from society. Not a bad thing when you've grown up in front of a camera, and are now answering to a fake name, trying to disappear. Eva is the only one that knows the entire truth, and Diego and Carlos have befriended him in spite of his silence.

_Stifling every sarcastic thought that comes to mind is probably the only reason I can still count them as friends. It's definitely been a lesson in impulse control I sorely needed, even if it came a little too late._

He heads toward his room, planning his strategy for the next three days. A strategy which is very simple. Avoid Veronica. If she knows who he is she'll seek him out; if she doesn't know, it'd be better if he didn't invite her scrutiny. Yet he pauses at one of the two doors housing her and the other fed. There's a fifty-fifty chance he'll find her on the first try. Knocking would be an irreversible act, but he sees his hand rising anyway.

He turns and heads toward his berth before he pulls a Stanley Kowalski and bellows her name.

* * *

" _Veronica." Her name reluctantly leaves his mouth, knowing it'll be one of the last times he calls it out._

_She turns and sees him, her face lighting up with a smile that is so big, it hurts to know it's meant for him. "Logan? I thought I was meeting you later. Couldn't wait, huh?" She practically skips the few steps to him and grabs his hands. Her thumbs gently run over the knuckles, mangled from when he beat up that asshole in the food court three days ago._

" _Me, either. I was heading over to the Grand." As she whispers, she puts his hands on her hips and snakes her arms around his neck, biting her lower lip in that damn way that makes him crazy. He knows the expected response is a kiss._

_Logan grimaces with the effort it takes to withhold that kiss. That's okay. It's best if she reads it as his being unwilling to feel her touch. Reaching up to grab her hands, he pulls them down from his neck and steps back, letting them go. Letting_ her _go in this first, incremental way._

" _Look, we need to talk." He shoves his own hands in his back pockets, reminding himself that's where they need to stay._

_He can see the confusion and hurt cloud her eyes, and he hates himself for it. Especially when she crosses her arms over her chest in that protective way of hers and steps back._

" _I'm not giving back your 30 Odd Foot of Grunts CD, if that's what this is about." The hopeful smile that flits across her lips makes this so much harder. She's begging him to take the seriousness out of this moment. They just started again; things should be light._

_But there's no way to make this easier; he just needs to get through it. "Look, after you left I had a chance to think. What happened… it was a mistake. I wanted you back in my life but we shouldn't have let it go that far."_

_There was a stopping point. They had talked through everything; Madison, Parker, Piz, Mercer, Logan's overprotectiveness, her trust issues and penchant for danger. Things were balanced perfectly for one moment, and could have tipped to the 'let's be friends' side. But then she kissed him. Veronica kissed him and finally, for the first time, said she loved him._

_The crossed arms that tighten around her waist tells him how much he's hurting her. She's wordless, standing there waiting for him to fix it. But he can't. He knows this is the right thing to do, for both of them._

" _Last night felt like the beginning of something great, but then I realized it always does. If we could just have beginnings this might work, but, Veronica, it never works for us. Not in the long run." The last couple of words come out forced and cracked, sounding as brittle as they feel. His mouth is completely dry._

_Veronica still isn't speaking; does nothing to fill the silence. She statues and he has to watch as her eyes fill with tears. He knows he needs to finish this, even if it kills him. The way his heart is clenching he thinks it might._

" _So I think it's best if I leave. Get out of this damn town and figure out what I want to do with my life. I don't want to put us through this again so I'm not… I won't be coming back."_

_The tears course down her face. Logan grips his pockets to keep his hands from reaching out to wipe them away, and desperately wishes there was a way to do this without hurting her._

_"I don't understand, Logan. After everything we said and—"_

_Her quavering voice almost makes him take it all back; promise her they'll figure it out together. But he already knows the end to that story, so cuts her off and directs a little of the ire he feels at himself toward her. "And it'll get us, what? Two months? Six, if we're lucky?"_

_Logan can see the way his harsh tone causes her to clench her jaw, and he knows she's angry now. The apology gets stuck in his throat, so instead he steps toward her, for what he doesn't know. Maybe to touch her one last time, but she reads his intention and finally reacts._

_The sting of her first slap is welcome, as is the second. But the keening noise she makes as she turns and slides into her car is something he knows will haunt him. The sound ends abruptly as she slams the door and starts up the car. She throws him one last, anguished before driving away._

_This is so much worse than the last time he broke up with her, when she stood there and took it; accepted his words and his goodbye kiss like he was doing them both a favor. After watching her ignore his call, he thought things were going to end badly for them and needed to be the one to walk away first. At least then he could carry around the bitter feeling he just beat her to it._

_Logan wants to fall to his knees, but forces himself to walk to the packed Land Rover. He still has to drop the majority of his items at the charity shop and sell his car before he flies to New York. But it takes all his strength to pull himself into the driver's seat. It's another half hour of telling himself he did the right thing before his hands stop shaking enough to fit the key into the ignition._

* * *

It's been at least six years since he allowed himself to think of how her face looked that day, but it's still etched in his memory. Her pain had been fresh and raw, not so different from the woman he'd seen crying tonight. Lying in bed, his stomach clenches as the memory cycles through again and again.

He finally drops off around two, to wake up a few hours later with his brain completely functional, as if it had been working the entire time he slept. He's incessantly wondering if she knows. And if she does, what she's waiting for.

He gets up and heads toward mess; his stomach loudly reminds him of the meal he missed yesterday. He hopes he's early enough that she's still sleeping. The fact that she didn't seek him out makes it likely she didn't recognize him last night, but it was dusk and she was angry and crying. Today might go differently; it feels like he's walking toward his execution, waiting on a call from the governor.

_Well, if I am a condemned man, I'm at least allowed a last meal._

Getting into the dining room a little after six, he's relieved to see it's populated by just Chuck, George and Connor. Javier probably ate already, and most everybody else is on duty.

Monk nods at the men and grabs a bowl, serving himself a dose of oatmeal and decorating it with a spiral of maple syrup. He sits himself at a table alone, leaving the others to their conversation. Until he starts to listen to it. It's a Chuck comment, of course, that gets his attention.

"Yeah, that fed is hot. Did you see her ass? Oh, and that blond hair. Gotta wonder if the carpet matches, right?" George's laugh encourages Chuck's foul discussion. "What I wouldn't give to get her on her knees and—" Chuck's comment is cut short when he's lifted from his chair, and slammed against the wall.

Monk doesn't think he's ever been this close to Chuck. His sunglasses have slipped low enough that he can see the hair sprouting from the man's nose move in synch with his deep, panicked breaths. The guy has hazel eyes, spastic with stupidity and confusion. Just before he drives his fist into Chuck's face, Monk notices the silence of the room behind him. His crew has never seen him more than mildly irritated; should he follow with the beating Chuck deserves, they'll label him psychotic.

_Not sure they'd be far off. Nice to know Veronica can still bring out this healthy side of me._

Instead of giving into his baser desire for violence, he pinches his thumb and forefinger together, running them over Chuck's mouth in the universally recognized 'zipped shut' motion, shakes his head, and lets the man fall to the floor. He walks back to his table and settles back down to his oatmeal as Veronica comes through the door.

He drops his gaze down to the table, and subtly pushes his sunglasses farther up his nose so the bridge rests comfortably between his eyes. They're his last vestige of protection.

_Is it too much to hope they'll work like an invisibility cloak?_

She's dressed in jeans and a worn-out Hearst hoodie, the letters cracked and flaking. The little extra rounding of her face he noticed last night is in the rest of her form. She still couldn't be described as solid, but there is a more mature, distinct curviness to her than the last time he saw her. Watching her move before him, he recognizes the energy and fluidity that's always been a part of her. It oddly makes him miss her, though she's standing right in front of him.

Through a large, squinty-eyed yawn, she says a general, "Good morning," to everyone before heading over to the stewpot. She scoops up her breakfast, then turns back around to face the room. To his left Monk can hear Chuck's indecipherable mumbling before he and the other guys recede into stony silence, not even looking at her.

Veronica is watching, taking in this scene with narrowed eyes. "I said, good morning."

Monk realizes his warning has had more impact than he intended as now no one is talking to her, even to return her greeting. When her eyes move to him, he finds some much-needed mettle and gives her a curt nod. It could be taken as either politeness from a stranger, or an acknowledgement if she's figured him out.

_You tell me, Mars._

Of course Veronica picks his table to sit at, directly across from him. Desperate to convey that he is unaffected by how close she is, he takes a bite of his meal. Stupid. The oatmeal sticks in his throat like paste, and he has to work to get it down.

"Monk, right?" Her brow is furrowed as she cocks her head and looks at him.

The soft cereal he swallowed turns into a hard-boiled egg in his gullet, and he nods his head, studying his gruel instead of meeting her gaze. His throat aches with the effort to try to not cough.

_If you're fucking with me, it's so not funny._

"Look, Carlos explained that the deck is your territory, and I wanted to say I'm sorry for intruding last night."

He finally works his throat clear without making any noise. Daring to move his gaze up, giving her only a reflective surface to look at, he gauges her intentions. There's no sign of that mischievous, up-to-evil expression he loved and loathed in equal measure. She appears genuinely contrite, her brows brought together in apology, her spoon making circles in her bowl as she waits for his answer.

He allows his breath to leave him in measured amounts, shrugs his shoulders and pulls the corner of his mouth in a 'whatever' gesture.

_Keep your apology. I owe you an even bigger one for not being able to ask why you were crying._

One of the men at the other table, George, decides to be helpful. "He can't answer you. He's a mute."

_Nice, George. 'A' mute, like I'm some different species._

Veronica's eyes never leave Monk's face as she studies him, but answers George. "Carlos explained he can't talk, but he did answer me." She reaches her right hand out to Monk at the same time he notices the ring on her left. "Special Agent Veronica Mars-Zare."

_Married. Veronica Mars is married. She moved on, like you hoped she would. At least her name isn't Piznarski. Or Navarro. Or Kane. Or any other horrific possibility you've run through your brain over the past decade._

He tries to tell himself that her being married doesn't affect him, doesn't break his heart even a little. She's found another man to build a life with, just as she should have; just as he's found with Eva.

Unfortunately, the snarkastic commentator that used to entertain the masses has turned on him, resigned to living in his head and judging his every errant thought. Monk hasn't gone so far as to name the bastard, but imagines him as a tattered volleyball with a bloody handprint for a face. If only he could pull it out of his head and pitch it in the ocean he might find some peace, but until then…

_Oh, so you wanted her to spend her life pining for you? Nice of you to finally admit it._

_Shut up._

He looks at her hand; he doesn't want to touch her, and he's never wanted anything more in his life. But to refuse would be conspicuous. He can't afford to be conspicuous.

Their hands meet, and she squeezes his firmly. He can't return the grip; all of his strength is going into making sure he doesn't tremble. He gives himself over to her as she pumps their hands up and down twice, then releases his to pick up her spoon. Pulling his own back, he realizes his palm is tingling. It doesn't seem possible she could still have the effect of bringing all his nerve endings to the surface with a single touch, but she does. And her hands are still cold.

The room is silent for another couple of minutes as they eat, and then Veronica leans forward, toward him. Her look is conspiratorial and impish as she raises an eyebrow and lifts the corner of her lip, whispering across the table so only he can hear. "It is way too tense in here. Think you can get someone to tell a dirty joke? Loosen things up?"

He shouldn't do it; he's not sure how she'll take it coming from a seemingly complete stranger. It's also not on his agenda for making himself invisible and forgettable to her, but he can't exactly ignore her either. Moving his shoulder to block the view of his hands from the other table, he makes the 'okay' gesture with one, and shoves the pointer finger of the other through the circle.

She lets out a quick bark of laughter and slaps her hand over her mouth. He does the same - lifting his elbow to the table and covering his smile with his palm, unable to contain the joy he feels at this small exchange.

_Damn, Veronica, I think I've missed that more than anything._

They both go back to eating, the way polite strangers sharing a table do, and he's sad to see the smile fade as the moment of humor ends.

_Now what, Monk? She's got your name, your evening routine, and you've made her laugh. You're in her sights so you better make damn sure you don't do anything Logan-like._

_What the hell does that even mean?_

_Remember when Eva said that, the way you move, she's always expecting you to break out into a dance? When you get up from the table you better step like you have magnetic shoes and the floor is made of metal._

Before either he or Veronica is halfway through breakfast, a strange man walks in. Tall, mid-forties, with sandy blonde hair and a smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle up. He's dressed casually, in jeans and a sweatshirt from the Copa America that took place in Chile a couple of years prior. His "morning" is returned by the other men, making Veronica's eyes narrow suspiciously at them. Monk has to pull the inside edge of his top lip between his teeth to keep it from turning up.

_Hey, I used to know that girl._

The man focuses on her and gives a wide smile. "Hey, Veronica."

Veronica nods her head and smiles wanly back, holding it only until the man turns around to get his own food. She's across the table from Monk, but her grumbling whisper is low enough he barely catches it before she dives back into her food. "Wonderful. Breakfast with Officer Friendly."

The guy fills a bowl, looking at ease in the shabby room, and comes over to join Veronica and Monk at their table. He immediately puts out a hand and flashes an interested, genuine-seeming smile.

Monk shakes it, trying to figure out why Veronica doesn't seem happier to see this guy. He appears normal, and perfectly nice. Which is apparently the problem, given her 'Officer Friendly' comment.

"Special Agent Trevor Petturi. I thought I met everyone at dinner last night?"

_I think I can get the point across myself. Or, at least save George having to explain about me._

Monk puts down his spoon and quickly fingerspells, "Wasn't hungry." He'd thought about learning sign language, but figured if he did that, he might as well speak. Fingerspelling is on par with writing – enough to communicate but not to invite lengthy conversation.

He almost feels bad as the guy blushes, his smile spreading even wider as if he can pretend away the awkward moment. "Sorry, I didn't understand that."

_Good. That makes it easier._

Monk shrugs, used to few people being fluent in even this abbreviated form of sign. Veronica's face doesn't show any more comprehension than the other fed's, so that's one more thing he knows about her.

Unfortunately she doesn't have the luxury of playing mute to her co-worker and becomes the unwilling focus of his attention. Petturi apparently doesn't know how to sit and be quiet for a minute, or take a hint.

"So Veronica. You weren't around after dinner. I thought we might exchange war stories, get to know each other."

"Too tired. I went to bed." Her tone and the way she refuses to give the guy eye contact broadcasts her disinterest.

_No. You needed to be alone because you were upset. Fuck, Veronica. Why were you crying?_

Monk hates that he'll never know the answer to that, and a thousand other questions he has about her. Just because she seems fine right now doesn't signify; she's too good at compartmentalizing. As Logan he might get her to talk, but as Monk he doesn't have a chance. Resignation forms a brick in his gut.

"Yeah, that was a hell of a day yesterday." Petturi shakes his head, schooling his face into a mournful expression. "That's the sort of thing you hope to never see in your whole career. You handled it like a pro, though."

Monk watches as Veronica's eyes squint and her mouth tightens around the spoon in her mouth, drawing out the bite she's taking a fraction longer than necessary.

_Hmm. I didn't think it was possible to see someone's eyes strain to_ not _roll. Careful Mrs. Mars-Zare, you might pull a muscle._

While Petturi prattles on, Monk rolls her hyphenated name around in his mind a few times, trying to get used to it. He wonders if Mr. Zare is anything like the Logan he was. Or if he's a nice guy, like she usually went for whenever they broke up.

_Even if he's perfect for her, I get to hate him. A little. Just because he's the one responsible for some of the laugh lines on her face._

Veronica finds a place to interrupt Petturi's one-man show of praise. "It's not that new to me. I worked violent crimes for a few years, including a couple of serial killer cases."

"Oh. Then I guess it works out you caught this duty. I've only seen a few bodies before and yesterday..." A perceptible shudder runs through Petturi, and Monk can see Veronica's face soften in sympathy.

She rolls her shoulders, as if trying to dislodge a weight. "Luckily yesterday was not the norm. I'm glad I'm free of the whole thing once we hit L.A. How did you get the assignment?"

"I've been down here for three years, but was recently given my orders to go home. I had a flight booked for tomorrow so I was handy; just had to accelerate my leaving a little."

"What type of cases did you work in Chile?" Veronica's voice is polite, and she's staring down at her bowl as she asks, conveying her question is prompted more from obligation than interest. At least that's the way Monk reads it, based on how well he used to know her.

Petturi gives an eager smile, apparently not noticing how little she cares about his answer. "Drugs, and not cases to be solved. More getting the inside as much as possible to suss out the channels of trade with the U.S. It's big business."

_Pay attention, Veronica. Drug trade between the U.S. and South America? I think this guy might be onto something._

Apparently feeling she'd pushed rudeness as far as was allowed, Veronica looks at Petturi and gives him a semi-sincere smile. "No offense, but thought they'd assign someone a little more…"

Petturi laughs and gives a wry grin, "Ethnic?"

Veronica nods. "Unless you were playing the tourist card to get the low level dealers, or posing as an American drug lord?"

"No. My target was a cartel headed up by one Franz Hitzig." At her confused expression Petturi laughs and his tone turns slightly patronizing. "Remember your history Veronica - an influx of Germans settled in Chile in the nineteenth century. And, after the Second World War, lots of Nazi expatriates fled to South America to escape prosecution for war crimes. They brought their families, and many never left."

Veronica slowly nods her understanding. "I remember reading something about that. I just didn't know any of them went into the drug trade. It makes as much sense as anything else. Did you make any headway in your assignment?"

"Some." Petturi shoots a pointed look at the men at the other table. "Nothing that can make its way out of a classified file yet, though."

Veronica gives Monk a glance, then picks up her spoon and starts eating again. Her change of subject is obviously for his benefit. "I bet you're glad to leave that all behind and go home. It must have been hard, to be gone so long."

A hint of bitterness pierces Petturi's expression before his face falls down into a mournful look. "I'm divorced, and my kids… well you know how teenagers are. It's cooler to say your dad's an FBI agent in another country than to have him doling out groundings and advice in person."

Veronica's brows pull together in a look of contrition, an expression Monk has only a passing familiarity with on her face. "Sorry, I didn't realize you had kids. I meant you must miss living in America."

Trevor's grin is self-effacing, as if embarrassed that he delved into something so personal with a stranger. "Oh. Yeah, sometimes. Chile grew on me though, and the work was exciting."

They keep eating robotically, Monk ignoring their third party, and Veronica giving enough grunts and "um-hmms" to make it appear she's listening to a recounting of the guy's escapades. As they finish their breakfast, Monk is even more determined to keep his distance over the next few days. His exchanges with Veronica have so far have been better, and more, than he'd dared hope for.

Unfortunately, she follows him as he walks intentionally heavy to put his dishes in the bus bucket, and heads out the door. Her voice makes him pause as his feet hit the lowest rung of the stairs that will take him up a level.

"Monk? I need to see where the people from _The Lady Lane_ are stored. I was told you were the one to ask since the captain is a little busy driving this monster. He doesn't have a liberal policy about letting anyone use the keys."

It throws him every time his false name falls from her lips. Whenever he's imagined her, she's saying his real name.

_Be thankful she's not, jackwad. Just give her what she wants, then she'll leave you alone._

_What if I don't want her to leave me alone?_

_Fine. Open your mouth and say her name._

Monk clamps his lips shut, nods and heads in the opposite direction, to below deck, motioning her to follow. The refrigerator bay is accessible through a large loading door in the side of the ship, but there is a smaller one for when they need to get into it while they're at sea. It's located midway on the starboard side; a square room on the deck that opens directly onto a flight of stairs

Heading down the stairs first, Veronica is right above him, descending at the same pace. He reaches out a hand to guide her the last few steps and down the hallway, but pulls back when his brain catches up to his habits. She doesn't notice.

Using his key, he unlocks the cooler door and leads her in, turning on the light. He could wait outside in the hall but he's curious what she's up to, and feeling oddly protective.

_Because you think the dead will rise?_

_Stranger things have happened with her._

Seeing the lines of body bags is creepy enough, but when Veronica walks up and down the room eyeing them all, he wonders what she's looking for. The space is a long rectangle, about thirty feet long by twenty feet wide, taking up the entire bottom-front half of the ship. The corpses are lined up evenly in three long rows, the first row one body shorter than the others. There is about a foot of walking space on each side.

Apparently satisfied, she rounds back toward the door and unzips the bag closest to him. She pulls a pair of purple gloves out of her back pocket, and it's all he can do not to look away. She's calm as she lifts out the forearm of the dead person, a woman based on the painted nails and three audacious rings on her fingers. He blanches as Veronica lightly presses the skin of the arms, and something in the middle of the bag, and is glad for the beard and sunglasses that hide his expression from her.

_I know she said she worked homicide, but when did she turn into Temperance Brennan?_

Zipping the bag and standing up, she removes the gloves and shoves her hands in the center pocket of her hoodie. She turns to him with a grimace. "Not sure if I'll ever get used to that. I helped out in the coroner's department for three months as part of my training, so I know how to make sure they're being stored at the proper temperature. But I never got the knack of looking at them as evidence instead of people."

Monk nods, because there is nothing else he can do, and holds open the door so she can exit the room. Standing less than a foot apart in the low-lit hallway together, the moment is given an intimacy he never thought he'd feel with her again. It's heady and unwelcome, since it wakens his appetite for more. Oblivious, she keeps her hands in her pocket and looks up at him after he locks the door.

"It's getting hotter. Do you have to adjust the cooler's temperature to account for it?"

_Clever girl. But no surprise there._ He nods at her, and holds up five fingers, turning the hand to waver it in the air, then holds up all ten.

"Five to ten degrees?" She seems surprised by the huge variance when he nods, but she doesn't know how old their equipment is, or how fickle.

"I think we should adjust it, another two degrees cooler for now. Ideally they should be stored between two and four degrees Celsius, but I know it's a little hard to hit that mark exactly in a large unit like this. I think I should check them a couple times a day to make sure they are cold enough that it slows decomp, but they aren't freezing."

The thermostat is in the hallway, on the wall by the door and he moves it down a couple notches. He ponders who he can push this escort task off on to. Another hallway moment with her isn't the best thing for his psyche.

_I'll get Javier to do it. He's the only one with keys to the refrigerator bays besides Diego and me, and Diego will have my ass if I lend anyone my keys. Can't say I blame him after that whole 'who ate half the cheesecakes we were supposed to deliver' incident._

"What are you up to next?"

He points above and mimes using a steering wheel. He, Diego and Carlos worked out their driving shifts, based on their preferred sleep schedules. Diego is doing midnight to eight, Monk eight to four, and Carlos will finish the day with the swing shift of four to midnight.

She nods and follows him above deck, shoving her hands in the pocket of her hoody again once her feet hit the boards. "Thanks."

He tilts his head in a slight bow, y _ou're welcome,_ then climbs the stairs toward the helm, being sure not to look behind him.

* * *

Diego is kicking back when he walks into the wheelhouse; his face is more wrinkled than usual and has the beginnings of shadows under his eyes. He rolls his head to look at Monk and checks his watch. "You're early, hombre. Couldn't sleep? Me either; I tried to catch a nap after dinner, but no luck. Not after being on that fucking ghost ship."

Monk grabs his pad and paper out of the drawer where he stashes them, and writes out a quick note. 'Did you find out what happened to those people?'

Shaking his head, Diego hands him back the pad. "Not much. That agent guy just told us it wasn't a sickness, so we didn't have to worry about contagions. So I guess that leaves murder, huh? God there's so many bodies…" He runs his hand from his forehead and down one cheek as he lets out a huge yawn.

'Go to bed. I don't mind a little extra time behind the wheel.'

"Yeah I might. Did you get ahold of Eva?"

'Emailed her before we got to the yacht. She said to tell you she hates you.'

Diego laughs. "You don't have any kids sucking away every dime you make. Use the extra money you're getting paid to buy her something nice so she'll forgive me."

_Nice try, but no dice. Eva cares even less about money than Veronica._

_So are you going to punctuate every thought with Veronica from now on?_

_Probably._

_Oh, this'll be fun._

Diego relinquishes his seat and catches him up on their course plan. "I'll tell the guys to clean the heads and main deck before I hit the sack. Check up on their work when Carlos takes over, eh?"

The next hour and a half is spent with one percent of his brain keeping them on course, and the other ninety-nine percent thinking of Veronica. Unfortunately, he's afraid this will be the status quo for a while. Sure he'd never stopped loving her, but he thought he'd finally reached a point of perspective about it, like he had Lilly.

_So you're saying Lilly was here instead of Veronica, it would screw with your head just as much?_

_Um, more, considering she's been dead sixteen years._

_Are we going to argue semantics, or are you going to admit you never really got over Veronica?_

… _Fuck._

No, he'd never entirely gotten over her, and hadn't tried to convince himself otherwise. Maybe he could have if she'd just been a girl he loved once, instead of the last person in his life he considered family. However, though it took years and happened by degrees, she no longer dominated his every thought.

He could go days without her name surfacing in his mind. Read a book or watch a movie without wondering what she thought of it. He'd gotten to a place where not everything was a reminder of her, in some way.

Veronica's memory was most distant when he was with Eva; the two women were different enough there wasn't any point in comparing. Eva was so imposing, both in physicality and personality, that she long since had taken over as the woman in his life; a worm memory didn't stand a chance next to her.

Okay, when he tosses off Veronica often makes an appearance. To hear the other guys talk, an ex-girlfriend is the least disturbing thing that could go through his head at that moment, so he's sure it doesn't mean anything.

_Aw, you're still telling yourself that lie. That's adorable._

_Do the words frontal lobe lobotomy mean anything to you?_

_…_

Unfortunately, Veronica's brief reappearance in his life will likely mean a setback to when he couldn't get her out of his head, no matter what he tried. It's a complication that is exhausting and infuriating, but, _damn it,_ a little exciting, too.

It's uncountable, the number of times he's wondered about her. Where she's living, what she's doing with her life, if she's happy. If she has the same friends, and the same fire that got her through the hard times. But, having a fraction of those questions answered raises a thousand new ones.

What kinds of cases does she work now? What's her husband like? Does he make her happy? Can he understand how fixated she gets about a mystery? Is he appreciative of the unapologetic bitch she can be when she's angry? Has he found that spot, on the back of her right thigh, that makes her crazy when it's lightly bitten?

_Shut it down, dude. This isn't helping._

It would all be so much easier if he just told her who he is. But he had his reasons, all his rationales for leaving, and nothing has changed. He has to work at it, but he convinces himself it's a kindness, more than anything, that he'll let her think their story ended all those years ago.

* * *

It's after eleven in the morning when he sees Veronica again. She's on the deck below him and headed toward the bow, no longer wearing her hoody. Her hands are shoved into the front pockets of her jeans. It takes him a minute to recognize the slowness of her gait; it was seldom he ever saw her walk without a purpose.

He's able to visually stalk her as she goes as far as she can, to where the two sides of the railing meet in a point. Monk grins as he sees her look around, put her feet up on each side and raise her fists in the air, holding the pose for a moment as the wind blows her hair back.

_I knew there was a girl in there somewhere._ Please _tell me you hearted Leo all over your diary._

He can't hear her laughter from here, but he can see the amusement on her face and the way she covers her mouth with her hand as she jumps down and executes a turn. One last check around to see if anybody is watching. She neglects to look up where he and George, who is on bow watch, are positioned to look down on her.

Seeing no one she relaxes, turning to lean over the railing while this time resting her forearms on the top edge. She watches the water for about nine minutes before he can see the boredom set in. She lowers her chin to rest on her hand and puts her foot back, planting her toe on the deck and moving the heel back and forth idly.

This only lasts a minute before she straightens up and turns around, perusing the deck for anything interesting. She never could do nothing. His life on the ship has taught him to be a little more Zen about time, but she's just the same. He's glad this antsy, purposeful side of her hasn't changed.

It isn't long before her eyes land on his window, and he sees her head tilt as if she's trying to figure something out. The sun is bright, and he's familiar with how the glare makes it impossible for her to see in, but he feels exposed anyway. If he knows her, and he still might, curiosity will bring her back into his sphere in about one minute. He's trapped, responsible for helming the ship until Carlos starts his shift.

As predicted, she scans the area in front of her to assess the best way to reach his nest, then makes her way toward him. He slips his sunglasses on, pulls the bill of his hat lower and slumps in his seat, as if disinterested in anything that had been going on.

_Five… four… three… two…_

"Monk?"

He rolls his head away from the window to see her standing in the doorway. Hopefully, if he gives her no further acknowledgement, she'll go away. Working with this theory, he turns his head back to where it was and stares forward as if she isn't even there. But, hearing her move in behind him, he knows she hasn't changed in peskiness.

"I've never been on a ship like this. Is it always this boring?" The teasing lilt in in her voice wants to draw a smile from him, but he can't allow it.

_There is nothing about this that I'm finding boring._

He shrugs, keeping his hands on the wheel and his eyes locked on the horizon, giving her the barest of encouragement.

She circles the wheelhouse, running a hand over the maps and instruments. "What do you do to keep from going stark crazy?"

_Try not to think about you, or anyone else from Before. You're not making that easy right now._

He uncrosses his arms long enough to point a book resting on the shelf behind the wheel.

She picks it up and thumbs the tattered pages in her usual, nosy way. "I've never read McMurtry. I saw Terms of Endearment, though. He's got a good handle on the sad. Is that what you read, westerns?"

If she were a stranger, and he was the man he pretends to be, he'd fall from her due to this interaction alone. Most people treat him as an imbecile just because he doesn't speak, but she's talking with him like she would anybody else, and waiting for him to answer.

Monk still doesn't look at her, but holds up his hand, his thumb and forefinger slightly apart. _A bit._

"What kinds of books do you usually read?"

How is he supposed to answer that? For him, reading had always been like breathing. If he uses liquid soap to wash his hands, he can't keep his eyes from perusing the text on the back of the bottle as he scrubs. Though he's pretty sure he could manage without the directions.

He's fluent in Spanish, and can read it competently, but it doesn't relax him like reading in English does. Living in Chile he's limited in the English books he's able to find, spending his first day home ordering new stacks to be shipped to him. It has occurred to him how easy it'd be to download everything, but he loves holding an actual book in his hands. Loves the difference in smell between an old, well-enjoyed book and one that's freshly printed. Keeping his voracious literary appetite sated, and filling the hours between ports, he's learned to be open to reading absolutely anything.

He can't ignore her. He's imagined talking to her so many times that he can't pass up the opportunity for even the slightest interaction with her, ill-advised as it is. But he didn't ask for this, and to be an asshole at this point might be more significant to her. So he chooses to answer with a pantomime. If she's insisting on staying and conversing, maybe he can cadge another smile from her.

They'd watched 'Love Actually' together, years before, and there was a scene with Colin Firth and some beautiful actress whose name escapes him. Colin was an English author and she was Portuguese; she was trying to ask Colin what kind of book he was writing, but without a language in common she had to resort to pantomime.

Monk imitates her actions, fluttering his hands over his heart, snarling while wielding an imaginary knife up and down, acting like he's crying and wiping tears from his face. Between each act he holds his hands as if reading a book, hugging it to his chest, and rocking side to side. Before he can work out a fourth genre Veronica is openly laughing.

"I get it. You love reading." She crosses her arms and leans back, chuckling as she smiles at him. But her face darkens and she turns to look out the window. "I used to know someone like that. He'd read anything, even labels. If he spent five minutes in your house, he would know every product you used."

" _Um… Logan?"_

" _Yeah?" He looks up, distracted, from the game he started to play when Veronica went to take a shower._

" _Why is your bathroom stocked with all my hair and face products?" Logan can see the worry in her scrunched up brow, and he laughs._

" _Relax. I didn't stalk you or anything. Last time I was at your place, I used your bathroom and noticed what you like. I thought it would be better if you didn't go home to your dad smelling like my shampoo."_

_She rolls her eyes. "He's protective, but he doesn't put me through the sniff test when I walk in the door."_

_Logan leans back, throwing the controller to the side. "How about we don't test that theory and I get to keep my balls intact? And by the way, a simple thank you will suffice."_

_She comes over, tightening the towel she'd wrapped around herself after she dried off, and leans over him. The kiss she bestows upon him is simple, chaste, and is accompanied by her hand cupping his jaw._

_"Thank you," she whispers and goes off to get dressed._

Monks's glad her back is to him while this memory jackhammers his brain, because he thinks she's talking about him. He doesn't want to know that, after all this time, he can make her face look like that. She's not supposed to be sad about him anymore. She's not even supposed to think about him so easily anymore.

The silence that follows is pressure filled. In any normal conversation, it would be up to him to distract her from thinking about the heavy. But he only has normal conversations with Eva.

_Eva. Damn, sweetheart. What will you say about all this?_

The answer to that question has to wait though, as it turns out Veronica being in front of him makes it hard to concentrate on thoughts of Eva. It turns out Veronica has her own way of dominating his attention – mainly by being present.

Veronica finally works her way out of her mood and turns a curious look his way. He feels his stomach tighten at the expression because he knows it's always followed by questions.

"What's your real name, by the way? I don't even know if I should call you Monk."

Rather than waiting for his answer, she casts her eyes around, looking for something. His pad of paper is stashed in a drawer, but she finds a scrap of something and a pencil lying errant on a shelf, grabbing and shoving them his way.

He doesn't want to do this. Doesn't want to feed her one more lie, but he can't give her the truth. There's only one way to answer. So, careful to use simple block letters, he spells out _MONK_ on the paper and hands it to her.

"Ah. The serial killer handwriting. Nice."

At the breathy exhale he uses to pass for laughter these days, she smiles at him, driving the tiny pinprick of a thumbtack into his heart.

"And thank you."

At that he tilts his head and furrows his brow. _For what?_

She points a finger at him, donning a look of pure mischief. "You just evaded a question, making finding out your real name my mission. I was going crazy without a project. See you later."

Without waiting for a response she heads out the door and goes down the ladder.

_God, she really is the most annoying person on the planet. How the hell did I get through any one of the past forty-eight hundred days without talking to her?_

* * *

Monk doesn't see Veronica again before Carlos relieves him at four o'clock. Whatever she's been up to, it doesn't involve hanging out on the decks. He tells himself he's not looking for her; if he's peeking into each open doorway and scanning every inch of the boat seeking a glimpse of her, it's because he's making sure he can avoid her.

Going down the last flight of stairs, he hears voices underneath him. It's Chuck and Connor, and he can see the hose they had been using to clean the main deck retreating as they roll it up.

"Fuck no, I don't feel sorry for them. Rich bastards like that probably had it coming." The derision is heavy in Chuck's voice.

Connor gives a small laugh. "You think they deserved to die just because they have money?"

"No," Chuck scoffs, "I'm saying they spent more on clothes and jewelry every year than your or I will see in our whole life. Did you see that yacht?"

"What does one have to do with the other?" Connor asks.

"I'm saying nobody gets that rich without fucking somebody over, so they probably got what they deserved. And they had it good while it lasted. Shit, I'd give up ten years of my life to have it half as good."

Monk reaches the bottom of the stairs and leans against a post, staring at the two men. Connor turns his eyes down as if he's a little embarrassed and gets back to finishing up the job, but Chuck fixes Monk with a glare.

Leaving Connor to finish the cleanup, Chuck walks up to Monk, sidestepping at the last moment so their shoulders slam against each other.

_I get it; you won't let what happened this morning slide. Bring it on Chuck. I haven't been in a fight in years but it might feel good right about now._

Predictably for an asshole of Chuck's caliber, he keeps walking, letting the shoulder slam hover as impotent threat. For a second, Monk imagines how satisfying it would be to start something himself; use Chuck's bulbous gut as a punching bag and release all the tension that's been tightening his own belly since the night before.

_You're worried about Veronica recognizing your walk and you're going to chance having her watch you fight?_

_But…_

_No._

Connor is making a point of not meeting his eyes, as if he was responsible for Chuck's bigotry against the wealthy. Monk ignores him, knowing he was just a bystander. Chuck doesn't need encouragement to be an asshole.

Just as Monk is about to turn the corner and head to his berth, he hears Veronica's voice and stills his feet. He knows he should take advantage of her distraction to escape, but can't keep himself from listening to the chirpy, friendly tone of her voice.

"Which one is it? …No, I remember the green one… I don't know. We'll have to talk about it… That we don't have to talk about. The answer is no... Okay, you get hilarity points for that… I'll be home in a few days… I love you, kiddo… Hey! I said I love you."

Monk's exhale of breath bypasses his mouth, instead filling his brain and making his head feel light. All the times he's thought of her, he's never imagined her as a mother. Yet, having seen the woman she's grown into, and remembering how fiercely she protected anyone she considered hers, he knows the image is unassailable, completely right.

_God, she'd be an amazing mom. Good luck to her kid if it tries to get away with anything, though._

The thought makes him smile, but loses it when she whips around the corner and runs right into his chest. Instinctually, he reaches out and grabs her upper arms, keeping her from falling back. She grabs onto his forearms, and laughs up at him. He can't focus on how the laughter lights up her face though, distracted as he is by the feel of her touch on his skin.

Finally on balance, they let each other go and he hides his reluctance in the act, stepping back to reestablish some distance between them.

"Sorry. I was on the phone before and not paying attention to where I was walking. But I'm glad it was you I ran into."

Monk cocks his head at her in question.

Veronica's playful smirk is so right on her face. "Two reasons. One is that you're about the best conversationalist on this crew."

He can't keep back the smile that comes out, chipped-tooth, redneck jokes be damned. Apparently news has spread about what set him off in mess this morning, so the men are being extra careful around Veronica. _I don't have a problem with that._ When she doesn't speak again he leans his head to the side and holds up two fingers.

"The second is that I found out your real name-ish."

He puts his back against the wall, tucks one hand in his pocket and uses the other to motion out from his abdomen. _Go ahead._

"Malachy, though nobody could seem to agree if your last name is French or Lynch. Given the Irishness of Malachy, I'm going with Lynch." Her shoulders waggle from side to side. She liefts her eyebrows and bites her lower lip in a way that is teasing, and self-proud, and causes his balls to twitch in response.

_Great. Well, we know that still works for me._

He gives an inward groan and an outward half-bow, as you do to royalty.

"But you should hear the rumors that fly about you. Everything from an actual monk," she puts a hand at the side of her mouth to fake-cover her whisper, "—I'm a little worried about the guy who told me that, by the way – to a spy. There's even talk of you having a harem. You're an enigma to these guys."

If he weren't wearing sunglasses she'd see him roll his eyes, but she interprets his scoffing chuff of breath accurately and rolls her own. "Sadly, I've learned that the more exotic the rumor, the more boring the story. My guess is you have a little house somewhere that is wall-to-wall books, a bed, and one lonely, leather chair."

_Mmm, bingo on the house, bed, and books, but it's two wicker chairs and a Chilean Goddess._ Y _ou're losing your touch._

"How did I do?"

He holds up a flat hand and wavers it in the air. _So-so._ He can tell she's about to dig deeper. A game of twenty questions could turn into fifty with her running the show. Besides, he has a few questions of his own. Making a fist, leaving out his thumb and pinky, he holds his hand up to his cheek.

She looks at him in confusion for a moment, then pulls a satellite phone out of her back pocket and tosses it between her hands. "Oh, yeah. My son. I've been gone more than a week now and miss him like an appendage. If I can't at least talk to him each day when I'm on assignment, I go a little crazy."

A son. He wonders if the kid is blond, like her. If those azure blue eyes are replicated in a miniature face. If he's short.

Reaching out a finger, he points at her and slowly fingerspells V-E-R-O-N-I-C-A. Making sure she is still watching, he points to himself and fingerspells M-O-N-K. Though not fluent at even fingerspelling, she may know enough letters to get the intent.

"His name?" _Nod. "_ Gaius."

He drops his head forward in a quick motion, bringing it to an abrupt stop about halfway down so it bobs, indicating surprise.

_No way in hell_ she _picked that name._

She snorts and crosses her arms, tucking the phone in the crook of her elbow. "Yeah, it's weird, I know. Life lesson: decide on your baby's name _before_ you suffer fourteen hours of labor and give naming power to the guy that held your hand through it all."

He knows the proper response is to grin, but he can't. He wanted her to be happy, but conversely hates the thought of another man so much as holding her hand, and he loathes the intimacy she's implied. Her being happy with someone else only works in the abstract.

Instead he focuses on her son, using his arms to indicate holding a baby. He stoops over, holding his hand at knee level, then waist level, before making a third stop at his chest.

"How old is Gai?"

At his nod, she squints her eyes, giving a proud, amused smile.

"Seven, going on eighty, going on twelve."

Monk cocks his head in question.

She laughs. "His dad nicknamed him 'Old Gai' because he's such a weird mix of little kid and old man. He'll talk your ear off about some new Lego he wants, but won't wear anything but cardigans and khakis, and loves jazz and big band music. One second he's mixing up the words croquet and crochet, and the next he's telling me I should start my own sarcasm society. He's as weird as his name."

Watching her as she talks about her son, it takes Monk a minute to recognize her expression and body language. Her face seems lit up from the inside, her smile is soft, and toothy, and she hugs herself a bit, as if trying to hold in the happiness. He remembers her this way, long ago. It's a look that highlights her beauty so fetchingly, he's sure he couldn't look away even if he tried. And he has no intention of trying.

_Why, Veronica Mars, I believe you're in love._

When he'd known her before, she wouldn't have told a stranger anything about her personal life. Whether it's because she's talking about her kid, or because her kid has helped her finally learn to let go, she's dropped some of that armor she surrounded herself with years ago. He's enjoying this more open Veronica.

_Actually, I_ remember _this Veronica. She was like this before Lilly got killed._

Luckily his inner critic is silent for once, though it might be smothered by the guilt that is filling him at the moment. Veronica didn't become closed off after Lilly died. She shut down after he led a smear campaign that resulted in her being ostracized and raped.

She forgave him for his part in those events years ago, and he even thought he'd forgiven himself. Hadn't he tried to make it up to her? Even if he failed, he had tried. But he hadn't done this – helped her heal enough that she could talk to a stranger with such artlessness. No, that was likely attributed to the man whose ring she's wearing, and whose son she's still smiling over. He doesn't want to, but he hates Mr. Zare a little less for it.

She grows a self-conscious under his stare, wincing and chewing the inside of her lower lip. "Sorry. That was a long answer to a basic question. I kinda dork out when I talk about him."

Monk smiles a bit and lets out a silent, one-note laugh, and accepts the sheepish grin she gives in return.

He pushes away the guilt, thinking his leaving all those years ago was the best thing he could have done for her. Maybe he'd finally gotten it right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I wasn't sure how much interest a mute Logan and a ship full of corpses would garner so you all thrilled me with your reviews, follows, and favorites. Thank you, thank you. Please keep them coming! Would it be oversell if I wore a t-shirt that said will write for reviews?
> 
> A/N: Thank you to the nevertothethird for her brilliant beta skills. Again. All mistakes or goofiness are my responsibility entirely. She does her best, but sometimes I still stumble.


	3. Enough

Thinking of Veronica happy and in love with her kid, Monk wonders about her husband for the five-millionth time that morning. Holding up one finger, he mimes the baby gesture again, followed by two fingers and the baby gesture another time.

Veronica shakes her head. "No, just the one kid. What about you? Like I said, my sources were useless."

_Um, NO. Even if I had a kid, I wouldn't allow it within a light year of this crew. Especially fucking Chuck._

He shakes his head and holds his left hand up, pointing to the ringless, fourth finger.

She snorts and gives him a half-smile. "Like that's a requirement."

The silence that follows is awkward. He has so many questions about her life, but since they're strangers he can't ask them. After a moment of foot shuffling and tentative smiles, he takes a step to the right to walk around her when her hand lands on his arm.

"Malachy?"

Hearing her speak his borrowed name isn't the same as when she used to call him by his real one, though it's much more satisfying than 'Monk'. But, out of habit, he can't bring himself to give into her that easily. Regardless if they were lovers or bitter enemies, they rarely had a conversation that didn't include a bait or tease. So he lowers his sunglasses, not enough to expose his eyes, but to punctuate his crossed arms as he looks down at her.

She removes her hand from his arm and gives him that smartass, self-satisfied grin he always loved; the one that shows all her teeth but lifts up only the left side of her mouth. "Hey, getting your name was hard work. In my book, that means I get to use it."

" _Jackass." Veronica's arms are crossed, her feet precisely a shoulder's width apart as she glares up at him._

_Logan smiles playfully and sidles toward her. She reminds him of a hissing kitten and he can't help dangling a string; taunting her when she's in a quasi-bad mood is one of his favorite kinds of foreplay. "You're saying 'jackass', but I'm hearing 'you're adorable'."_

" _Yeah, because it's adorable when you flirt with our waitress all through dinner."_

_Registering the bitterness in her accusation, he realizes she's not overplaying this for effect; Veronica is demanding him to either apologize, or defend himself. But neither is warranted since he did nothing wrong. His feet stop by the sofa, keeping a three foot distance between them. He's been looking forward to this date all week and is irritated she's found a reason to ruin it._

" _Veronica, I can be polite to the opposite sex without it being a come-on. It's not my fault if you can't tell the difference." He removes the suit jacket he's wearing and throws it on the couch, then loosens and yanks the tie over his head, letting it drop to the floor. When he unbuttons his sleeves and starts rolling them up, he realizes he's preparing for a fight and stops._

" _Saying her name no less than five times while she was serving us. Winking when she asked if there was anything else we needed. That's not flirting?"_

_Now he can see tears pooling in her eyes, and this finally gets through the buzz of the alcohol. Veronica's not just angry, she's hurt._

_He softens his tone; the affront at being charged for something he didn't do fades away. "My mom taught me to use the wait staff's names. You'd be amazed at what a difference it can make in the service. And you were only seeing half my face, so you're no judge if it was winking or blinking." He chances moving toward her and is gratified when she doesn't back away._

" _As far as I'm concerned you were the only woman in that restaurant tonight." He takes two steps closer and smiles when her arms drop to her sides. "Plus, there's a litmus test to tell if I'm flirting. Since she neither slipped me her phone number, nor dropped her underwear in my lap, I passed."_

_Veronica grunts, but there's a twitch of a smile at the edges of her lips. "I said you flirted. I didn't say she fell for it."_

_He moves in the final distance between them and looks deep into her eyes. "C'mon, Mars. You know one isn't possible without the other."_

_At that she laughs and pushes his chest, causing him to stumble on his cognac-affected feet. "Like I said: Jackass. It's your name now. You better get used to it."_

Monk's done so well at cataloging and filing all these memories, giving them a replay only when he allows it. Something about having Veronica in front of him has destroyed the control he's maintained over his mind.

"So…Malachy," she smiles, flaunting her use of the name and daring him to challenge her. When he just tilts his head at her in answer, her smile grows, turning into one of victory. "Now that my project is done, I'm bored as hell. Any chance I can borrow a book?"

He considers offering her the McMurtry novel he's still carrying around from earlier, but is sure she'd prefer something with less cows. He turns and waves his hand, indicating she should follow him.

Turning the corner to go to his room, he waits while she opens the door to the berth next to his and throws her phone in, answering the question about which room is hers.

_And that information has no value for you, does it?_

_Um…_

_I didn't think so._

His room is the last door on the starboard side, farthest toward the bow, and he stands aside after he opens it, allowing her to go in first. It's odd, having her actually exist within these four walls. He's imagined her showing up at his house, or running into her in various cities, but this room seemed lowest on the list of reunion possibilities.

It's a tiny space, nine by seven feet. In it are an elevated bunk, a small, built-in chest of drawers, and crates of books shoved under the bed. The crates keep them from scattering when the boat pitches, and also makes them easier for unloading whenever he gets a break at home.

There's no window, and the room's single light shines on his bunk. With the door open there's enough light to see, but not with sunglasses on. He has to take the risk of removing his them long enough to search for a book. He counts on her being too nosy to notice.

While he rummages she turns her focus to the walls. They are a riot of color, lined with the oil pastels Eva created for him. Eva visited the ship once, following a fight they'd had. After they made up she lay in his bunk, stared at the austere walls, and informed him she was going to add color to his life.

From his limited experience touring galleries with his mother, Eva is a decently talented artist. The past few years she's made a fair living selling at local galleries and an outdoor market. She favors a strong color pallet and sticks to pictures of cityscapes, buildings, and nature. None of the drawings feature people, and all are done from the perspective of a disinterested observer. They're especially popular with tourists who want to take home a piece of Chile.

Veronica hones in on his favorite, a replica of the house he shares with Eva. Every detail is rendered, from the swing on the porch to the sandals discarded by the front door.

She half-turns to him, giving a distracted smile. "Tell me that place has a hammock and I am so there."

_In the middle of the living room. Who needs a couch?_

He sees her move on, pausing at a whimsical, faded postcard of a child's toy that's been hanging in here longer than the pictures. His hands pause over the books, and from her profile he can see her smile while she looks at it and leans in for a closer study.

"I had nesting dolls when I was a kid. I thought they were like the best secrets, the kinds that come in many layers."

_There's a secret right in front of you. Somehow I doubt it would make you smile like that._

She moves on to study another of Eva's paintings and Monk remembers his errand. He continues searching through the crates, coming up with two books he knows she'll love. One is a dark, twisted, and hilarious novel by Jane Shapiro about a catastrophic marriage. The other is the English translation of a French tale. It's full of romance and mystery: a story about childhood friends who became lovers, and were then separated by circumstance. When the protagonist, Mathilde, starts to question what she understood to be true about her love, she spends years on a quest for answers.

Thinking through the two plots he tosses the Sebastien Japrisot novel back in the box and hands her the Jane Shapiro one.

_Besides, I've never given her a love story with a happy ending before. Why start now?_

She doesn't immediately take it, eyeing the cover dubiously. "'The Dangerous Husband'? What kind of book is it?"

_How do I get you to understand that it's a story about a horrible marriage? A marriage that starts out ideal but then heads in an unexpectedly awful and hilarious direction?_

His conclusion is that you don't. Some books just have to be read on faith. So he holds it out to her and places his hand over his heart, giving her his best pleading expression. He's about to raise his eyebrows to add to the effect, but stops. He remembers a time, years before, when she told him to shut up because he interrupted a conversation she was having with his eyebrows.

Her mouth skews to the side and she squints one eye, perusing the book cover skeptically. "Trust you?" When he nods she blows a shot of air out her nose. "Not really my forte, but I'll give the book a shot. Thanks."

As Veronica grabs it, she looks directly up at him.

Monk jolts, realizing his sunglasses are still off and it's the first time their eyes have made contact. Hers have suddenly gone from relaxed to…spastic. They dart from left to right and back again without wavering from his.

Her voice is shaking as she stares up at him, pressing the book between her hands. "Thanks. I should have it back to you soon. I…thanks." In a rare show of nervousness she scoots around him and darts out the open door.

_Fuck._

* * *

Monk waits a while for her to return, pacing the room and resisting the urge to pound his head against the wall for his own stupidity. When she doesn't come back, and he reaches the limit of how many times he can walk the tiny space, he leaves to search for Javier. She'll need to check her stiffs again, and shouldn't be forced to be alone with him if she's not ready.

_Take your time, Veronica. I'm not sure I'm ready yet, either._

Javier is in the kitchen, looking harried as he finishes his dinner preparations. There are several pans in the sink and on the stove, and the place is redolent with the smell of green peppers. If Monk didn't know Javier, he'd think the room held the promise of a good meal, well prepared.

"Hey! Come to lend a hand?" Javier's distracted glance tells him it wouldn't be welcome despite the question. The cook prefers to stress out on his own, and anyone else in the kitchen with him just makes him nervous. The results are more disastrous than usual.

Monk hands him the paper he'd pre-written, careful to keep his reference to Veronica generic. 'The fed lady asked if someone could let her into the cooler before dinner. I need you to do it.'

Javier reads the note, but refuses to make eye contact as he hands it back and answers, "I would, hermano, but I kinda, um, lost my keys again. I had them last night, but this morning I couldn't find 'em."

Monk closes his eyes and searches for patience. Unfortunately Javier has a habit of losing his keys, leaving Monk to cover for him until they are found some random place like the head, the refrigerator or, most memorably, in a pot of soup. Diego only knows about two instances and warned Javier that if it happens again, he'll be out of a job.

_That would be a blessing, while I still have a functioning colon._

Monk picks up a golf pencil from the counter and writes. 'I'll loan you mine, but if you lose them I swear the days of walking the plank are coming back."

With an abashed grin Javier takes the keys. "Sure, sure. I'll have them back to you at dinner."

Telling himself it's more for her sake than his own, Monk avoids Veronica, trying to be places on the ship that she isn't. He goes down to the engine room to make sure everything's operating well, then to the tiny weight room next to Diego's berth in the hopes that a workout will calm him. After, he hangs out in the wheelhouse with Carlos, spreading a chess board out on the counter so Carlos can reach it without taking his hands off the wheel.

When he's trounced twice, he resigns himself to his fate and goes back to his room. It's a ship; she'll be able to find him if she wants to. Getting it over with is preferable to carrying around this knot of dread in his stomach.

He doesn't see her again until seven, when dinner time is almost over. Until driven out by hunger and impatience, he stared at his door, waiting for her to come back and launch her accusations. Part of him hoped she would; the part that had never stopped loving her, no matter how much easier it would have made his life.

On his way to the mess he passes Louis and Vincente teaching Trevor Petturi how to play shuffleboard, so he hopes he'll be eating alone. He's not in the mood for company. But from the entryway, he can see Veronica is sitting by herself at the middle table, reading and picking at the remains of a plate of enchiladas. Based on the number of dishes in the bus, and the amount of food left, he's the last one to eat.

_Put one foot in front of the other  
And soon you'll be walking 'cross the floor._

Monk pauses outside the door, wasting a moment trying to remember which claymation Christmas movie the tune came from. He's not being a coward, he's just sure if he moves from this spot, it will bug him the rest of the night. As usual, he can't have a moment of peace - his inner critic has to have his say.

_Sure. That's what you're afraid of._

Monk ignores him. ' _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer'? 'Frosty the Snowman'?_

_It was 'Santa Claus Is Coming To Town'. Any more mysteries of the world you need to solve before you face this?_

George, Winston, and Javier are playing cribbage at the far table, so Monk takes his food and sits at the third, unoccupied one. Javier comes over and shakes his hand, pressing the keys into his palm covertly so the other guys don't see.

The enchiladas, the best of Javier's limited and badly executed repertoire, have the taste and consistency of unbuttered hominy in his mouth. It's hard to tell if that's due to Javier's cooking this time; stress always kills his taste buds. Monk's entire focus is on Veronica, intensely reading her book to his left. The few short hairs on the back of his neck rise at her proximity, but she's so engrossed in the novel she hasn't even noticed his presence.

Monk gets through most of his meal without catching her attention, until she finally looks up from the book. Her plate is now empty and she glances behind her at the buffet, frowning when she sees there aren't any enchiladas left.

_Something tells me you won't be satisfied by anything tonight._

Turning back, her gaze falls on him and he nonchalantly takes another bite, giving her a small nod. He'd deliberately left off the sunglasses; she won't be content otherwise. Also, she has every right to denounce him as a fake and liar, and call him out for being such a bastard to her all those years ago. In preparation, he's been forming arguments in his head and can't help going over them again.

_One, you're married, and have a kid you obviously adore. Two, you have the career you always wanted. Three, I had to leave, to give you a chance at that happiness. C'mon, Veronica. You can't hate me too much._

Monk tenses as she slips an index card into the pages of the book, disposes of her dishes, and comes over to sit across from him. But the finger pointing he expects never happens; he watches as she blinks rapidly and looks down at her hands. He does the same and notices the knuckles of her right one are oddly red, irritated by something; she scrunches her lips together and meets his eyes, testing his patience when she studies him instead of saying something. Anything.

She frowns, and then shakes her head. Her tone is low so that only he can hear it, though it's obvious the other men are trying to eavesdrop by the way their conversation drops off.

"Malachy? I'm sorry, for before. For running out like that. It's just…when you took off your sunglasses…It was the first time I really saw your face. You remind me of someone, and it threw me."

Disappointment slams as a brick in his stomach.

_How can you look at me and not see me?! You think this is just a similarity? Dammit, you know me!_

Monk stares at her, seeing pain in her eyes. Pain likely caused by him.

_Jesus, do I do this? Do I open this motherfucking door?_

But he has to know what she'll say, after all this time. If it's even him she's talking about, because apparently being a maudlin bastard isn't limited to when he's drinking.

Sometimes the best way to get the right answer is to ask the wrong question. He reaches out and touches her wedding ring, then uses the same finger to trace a question mark on the table.

She gives a brilliant smile, her exhale containing a hint of a laugh. "Sam? No. You're nothing like Sam."

_Sam. Sam Zare. How is it possible to be insanely jealous of someone you've never even met? Sure as fuck when she thinks of me, I don't put that kind of a smile on her face._

"I—" she frowns, then turns her head slightly, seeming to notice their audience for the first time. George and the other guys go back to looking at their cards, talking loudly to cover up that they were completely silent just a moment before.

Veronica looks out toward the window and glances back at him. "It's getting close to sunset. Don't you have somewhere to be?"

Monk notices how low the sun is sitting in the sky, and marvels at the lack of urgency he feels. Until now, sunsets were the only time he had allowed Veronica's memory, and nothing kept him from that. Now he curses the damned end of day for interrupting whatever she was going to say. For giving her the excuse to not say it.

Standing up he nods at her, throws his dishes in the tub and makes a decision as he heads out the door. Once he is on the deck and out of sight of the cribbage players, he turns to face her. Veronica's watching him rather than reading her book; he tilts his head in invitation. She seems to get the secrecy in the summons, giving a subtle nod, slowly gathering up her book and sauntering toward the door.

_All we need is a girl's bathroom and an 'Out of Order' sign, and it will be like sneaking around in high school all over again. Except this time her legs won't wrap around my waist._

_And that's the last time you let yourself go there._

_You are a serious suckage of fun. But…yeah._

Wordlessly, Veronica follows him up the various stairs to reach his private perch. They still have about forty minutes before the finale and he settles in on the bench, leaving enough room for her to sit beside him.

The book she sets down serves as a barrier between their hands, where they both clutch the bench as they look out at the sea. It feels as if his skin is covered in ants when she doesn't speak for a full two minutes.

Finally unable to wait any longer, Monk leans toward her and cups his hand around his ear, but is unprepared for the name that falls from her mouth.

"Logan. I was going to say you remind me of a…well, a boy I used to know named Logan. I didn't realize it until I saw your eyes, but you could pass for his…god, I don't know, his uncle or his brother." She lets out a shaky laugh. "Then again, I'm probably just seeing something that isn't even there because I've been thinking about him so much lately."

It takes her entire speech for him to catch his breath, pulling inconspicuous gulps of air between his teeth. He thought she'd hint at this, or talk around it. It never used to be her style to just come right out with what was bothering her.

' _So much lately'? Since when is lately? Since you got on the ship and first saw me, or before? Do I even want to know?_

But now he has to know, if she'll tell him. Even if she has been thinking about Logan – him _fuck, that's confusing. It's been years since I've been 'Logan' -_ why would it make her so upset, after all this time, to see a resemblance? He turns to look at her and makes sure she's watching as he fingerspells L-O-G-A-N and draws a question mark in the air. Then he touches his fists over his heart, and grimaces as he wretches them apart.

She turns to look up at the sky and nods her head, her jaw moving around. "Oh, yeah." She extends the syllables on these words until they take up a full four seconds, but it's a long moment before she speaks again. A long moment when he thinks that's all he'll get from her.

_Come on, Veronica. What's going on with you?_

The hint of a smile turns her lips up. "I was mandated to do community service when I was still in college."

 _Random non sequitur, but now I'm curious._ Monk widens his eyes at her, but he's thwarted at getting any more details when she turns her head and winks at him. Her low chuckle and the shake of her head is a refusal of something he hasn't even asked yet.

"I'm not going to tell you why; it's too ridiculous."

He grins at her and nods his head to encourage her to continue. The possibilities of why Veronica would have had to do enforced community service are vast, given her extra-curricular activities during college. But that's not what he wants to hear about right now.

"I was assigned to work at a nursing home. It was depressing as hell, but I loved listening to the old people talk about their lives. My psychology prof agreed to let me turn it into a paper so the time was productive. Anyway, the patients could ramble on and get distracted so I came up with a list of questions to keep them focused. My paper was about the post-game perspective, and the life events they think affected them most."

Monk laughs silently to himself. _Leave it to you to turn community service into a college paper_ and _a philosophical investigation._ He watches her face as she talks, focusing on the fading sky in front of them. She seems resigned and sad, mellower than the first time he had seen her up here.

"There are the obvious, positive things: falling in love, getting married, children being born. But the ones they gave the most details about, the moments that seemed to have the largest resonance, were the heartbreaks. Having people die, leave, or betray us causes the biggest ricochet, and our subsequent happiness stems from how we deal with that."

Monk leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and staring out at the deep oranges and pinks that start to appear. Tonight's sky is going to be stunning, and he wants to imprint every shade into this memory to replay with the sound of her voice when she's gone.

He wonders about his own post-game perspective - all the heartbreaks both behind and ahead of him. Veronica said having people leave causes some of the biggest ricochets, but he could add a paragraph or two to her paper about how leaving also affects you. The leaver has to live with the anguish of wondering if they should have done things differently, because they made the choice.

When she doesn't talk again he glances over his shoulder to see her still staring at the horizon. Their knees aren't too far apart, so he bumps hers to bring her attention back to the half-silent conversation they're having. It's the nudge of a friend, and all that's appropriate given their circumstances.

Her eyes flit to lock with his and he sees it again, the recognition and the subsequent shift when she convinces herself what she's seeing isn't real. "Malachy, I appreciate that you're being nice and asking about this, but I'm in a strange place right now. Trust me when I say you don't want to hear it."

Monk keeps her gaze and leans toward her, cupping his hand around his ear again. She closes her eyes and nods, wetting and rubbing her lips together in preparation to talk.

"Logan and I grew up together. We were friends before anything else, but then in high school things got, well, complicated. Then we fell in love, but it didn't always go well. It usually didn't go well." The small chuckle she gives is unpleasant, full of regret rather than humor. "After freshman year of college, he just up and left town. I never heard from him again."

 _Thank you, Veronica, for saying_ we _fell in love. But here comes the part where you talk about how much you hate me, right?_

"I was so angry at him for making that decision on his own, and I put a lot of energy into convincing myself I didn't need him anymore. Convincing myself that I hated him, when he was just a messed up kid who was trying to figure things out. It took me a long time to see past it. But talking to those old people pushed me to forgive him and move on with my life. And thank god or I might have missed out on marrying Sam."

It peels a few paper-thin layers from his heart to watch as she looks fondly down at her wedding ring, and gives a smile he once thought belonged only to him. But he can't begrudge her this. It was the point of his defection, after all.

_And she forgave me. That's a gift I never thought I'd get._

Tucking her hands under her knees, she studies the sky again. "But every once in a while something will remind me of Logan. A song or a quote or a particular shade of brown eyes," she angles her head his way, raising her eyebrows and giving him a closed-mouth smile. "And I can't think, or even breathe for a minute. Maybe you know what I'm talking about?"

The way she shoots a look at the emo tattoo on his arm is a question itself. He can't give her the words to explain, but words aren't really needed. Instead he just locks eyes with her for the time it takes to lose the bottom curve of the sun below the horizon, and nods.

She looks away from him, at the darkening sky, but somehow he doesn't think she's seeing it. "So, yeah me. I've moved on with my life. At least, I thought so until Logan's sister came to see me a few months ago. She wanted to hire me to find him, as if I was still working as a private detective."

_Trina? Was she out of money? Wait, I know. She was offered to film an update to the E! True Hollywood story on the condition you make an appearance._

_Or she's finally gotten around to being worried about me._

… _(snort)_

_Fair point._

"I didn't realize that he'd lost touch with her, too. That bothered me, since she was the last person he had a connection to. But I turned her down; I figured she just wanted his money."

_But then you just couldn't leave it alone, could you?_

"Then it started to worry me. I knew she'd hire someone else, but it'd be someone that didn't know him. And it brought up all these questions I thought I laid to rest years ago." She turns her head and gives him a wry, slightly embarrassed smile.

"Are you sure you want to hear this?"

_No backtracking now, Veronica. I'm not letting you leave this deck until you tell me._

Monk keeps her gaze, nodding at her to continue. She takes a big breath her eyes clench shut, and the corners of her mouth tremble.

"I don't even know why I'm talking about this. Except, if I don't talk to somebody I'll go crazy." She gives a small laugh and uses her fingers to press the corners of her eyes, wiping the tears onto her jeans.

_Just talk, Veronica._

"So I started with the basics. Follow the money. He had two trust funds. One he received when he turned eighteen, the other to transfer to his control when he turned twenty-one. He burned through the first one pretty quickly, living in Europe."

He'd expected judgment, but sees only pain in her face. She withheld the details of how he spent the money; all Monk remembers is a lot of hotels and astronomical bar bills.

_Weird that I appreciate her keeping some secrets about Logan from Monk. She wasn't always so generous about my misbehavior._

"Then he moved onto South America. Because it's cheaper? I don't know."

Monk feels his heart jump at this news, and grips the bench tightly waiting for her to continue.

_I knew you were good but. how. the. fuck. did you follow me here?_

"The money from his second trust fund disappeared the minute it came through, so that was a dead end. He had a ton of credit card charges though, the last at this little motel in Paraguay years ago, and then nothing."

_Paraguay? I've never even been to Paraguay. I didn't use my credit cards or anything else with my real name on it after Athens. What the hell is going on?_

Veronica rolls her head his way and, seeing the sadness that lines her face, he wonders at it. Is she sad that he spent his time after leaving her so pathetically, or because she didn't get solve to her mystery?

"I had no luck getting more information on the phone, so I found a way to come down here."

_How'd you pull that off? 'Hey Sammy baby. You don't mind if your wife skips on down to South America so she can look up an old lover, do you? Sweet! See you in a week!'_

He feels like one of those little glass birds; the kind filled with water that you put on your desk and use your finger to make them bob up and down. But he nods again anyway, not sure how else to let her know he's listening.

"A friend of mine was working a case and got a lead that had to be followed down to Colombia. I offered to go in his place. Did the whole two-birds-one-stone thing. It's how I ended up on this gig. I was already down here and done with my official business, so it was nice and convenient. They caught me right before I left to catch my plane home." She stretches her legs out in front of her, crosses them at the ankles and uses her feet as a new focal point for her stare.

_That answers that question, but who cares? What did you find in Paraguay?_

When she's quiet a few loud heartbeats longer than he can stand, Monk leans over and nudges her shoulder. Veronica looks up at him, a little startled based how her eyes widen.

"What? Oh, sorry. I hate when people don't get to the point. So I went to Paraguay, and found the motel where he last had credit card charges ten years ago. It's this tiny, family-owned dive and the owner is retired, but her son's running the place and he called her for me. Turns out she remembers Logan."

The night is warm, balmy even, so Monk's sure it's not cold that makes Veronica cross her arms. "He stayed at her motel for about a month. The owner said he had a more than a few wild parties in his room, and wasn't the best guest, but he paid his bill so she let him stay. It's just that kind of place."

_Wild parties. In South America. Does that mean you think I'm a heavy drug user too? This is a fucktastic last chapter to our story._

Monk feels a little sick to his stomach at what she must think of Logan, but can't bring himself to fix it.

"Anyway, one day he left and never came back. She threw his passport and personal stuff in a box in the storage room, and forgot about it until I showed up. I had to go through a couple decades of guest registers and other junk until I found it." Veronica stands up and steps over to the railing, then turns to face him. Monk meets her gaze, knowing she's looking for the resemblance she noticed before. She grasps the steel bars behind her so tightly her knuckles turn white.

"God, you have to understand how weird this is for me. It's like I'm looking at Logan and telling him Logan is dead. Which, if that's the case, I'm the goddamn Ghost Whisperer."

 _Logan is dead, Logan is dead._ The phrase loops through his mind, as if repetition will help it make sense. _Wait…What?! Did I miss a step here? What the hell are you talking about, dead?_

She must have seen the shock and confusion reflected on his face, because she chuckles bitterly and rolls her eyes. "If you were Logan I hope I would have broken that to you a little gentler."

Turning around to look out at the fading light, Veronica rests her forearms on the railing and stays quiet. Monk moves to stand beside her and mimics her pose, wanting nothing more than to grab her and shake her until she tells him what the hell she found. His knees are trembling with the impatience of it.

When their glances meet, he tilts his head down at her and raises his eyebrows, resemblance be damned. _Tell me the rest._

"I could see him leaving, but not without his passport, or without using his credit cards. So I checked the hospital and police records for that year, just in case. The one that panned out was a John Doe found in a shallow grave about three months after Logan disappeared." She swallows noticeably and looks down at her hands. "All his teeth were pulled and he was burnt beyond recognition, but he had a key etched with a number that matched his room at the motel. And he was carrying a metal keychain I gave him."

_Wait. The passport. The keychain. The credit cards. I threw those all away in a dumpster before I left Greece._

Everything makes sense, finally. Someone must have found his trash and stolen his identity. He wants so badly to shout the truth at her, but stops himself before he can. _This is better. At least she has closure, even if it's a lie._

"The tox screen showed at least three different hard drugs in his system, which is confusing because that's not like him, but maybe things changed." She closes her eyes tightly and shakes her head. "Or maybe he was just a stupid kid who thought he was invincible."

 _No,_ you _thought you were invincible. I thought I wasn't worth being cautious. There's a difference._

"Anyway, the police said there's no point in trying to figure out who killed him; it's too common an M.O. around there and the murderers are rarely caught, especially so long after the fact. So that's it. Logan died over a decade ago and I didn't even know it."

The look she gives him is agony-filled, her eyes pooling and overflowing with tears. Her lips quiver as they turn down and press together to hold back the sob he can hear working at the back of her throat.

"It's all just…I'm having a thousand different emotions every minute and I don't know what to do with them. One second I'm in tears, like how you found me last night. The next I'm so angry I'm punching walls and screaming into pillows."

Monk looks at the reddened knuckles of her right hand and knows she's telling the truth, But he's also seen her playing 'king of the world', digging into his real name and bragging about her kid. Were their situations reversed he couldn't do the same.

Veronica gives a deep sniffle and steeples her fingers over her mouth and nose, wiping the tears from her cheeks. "Then I push it all down and try to go about things as usual, finding any reason to distract myself. Which only lasts so long before it all hits me again, and I have to find a quiet place to fall apart until the wave passes."

_I'm sorry. At this point I don't even know if the truth would be better, and I'm not ready to take that risk. At least this way, you don't seem to hate me._

She pulls the sleeves of her sweatshirt over her hands, fisting them so the material can absorb the salt water from her fingers. "This too shall pass, right? But for now," she gives a sad, lopsided smile, "To quote 'I don't know what your situation is but I wanted you to know what mine is. Not just to explain some rude behavior, but because we're on a little boat for a while and... I'm soul sick. And you're going to see that'."

It takes Monk a minute to recognize the reference, since it comes from a movie he hasn't thought about in years. Duncan made them watch 'Joe vs. the Volcano' repeatedly the summer before high school.

_It's probably safer that you don't show you know the source. Who the hell else would know that weird, little movie so well?_

Instead he responds to the sentiment intended, since he's feeling a little soul sick himself. He knows he shouldn't, that it's a bizarre gesture from someone whom she thinks is a random stranger, but he holds out his hand to her. It's not the hug she needs, but it's all he can give her at the moment.

She keeps her eyes locked on his as she grasps it. Resting their conjoined hands on top of the railing connecting them, they turn to watch the sky while she uses the sleeve of her sweatshirt to dry her cheeks.

* * *

Back on the main deck, afterward, Veronica hesitates at the foot of the last ladder. She's biting the inside of one cheek and is having trouble meeting his eyes. His self-enforced silence taught him patience, though, and he waits her out.

"So…that was a little weird. I don't usually inflict tons of my emotional baggage on people I barely know."

_Or on people you do. I wish it could have been that easy when we knew each other before._

Monk doesn't want her to walk away embarrassed from their time together. Any attempt to put her at ease will likely have the opposite effect, and her avoiding him for the next two days is unthinkable. Almost as bad as her absence will be, after she goes home. So he stalls, exaggerating The Thinker's pose while he frantically ransacks his brain for something to extend their time together that evening.

_But why? What do you want from her?_

_To give her a friend. She obviously needs one._

_Survey says bullshit. You're a greedy little fucker and want a little more time with her._

_Another fair point._

Veronica waits with a skeptical smile on her face until he moves, snapping his fingers and waving at her to follow him. Monk sticks close to the wall, tiptoeing in an overdone way. They have to pass by the mess to get where he wants to go, and doesn't want anyone waylaying them. Plus, he wants to make this fun for her.

Squatting down below the window level, he can hear her stifled giggles as she crouch-walks behind him. Now that it's dark, the five crew members that aren't working, plus Javier and Trevor Petturi, are hanging out together. It sounds like a raucous poker game is in session. Monk peeks in from his low stance and, when he sees they're all looking away from the door, waves her to make her move.

She jets past the open doorway, then waits on the other side until he is clear to follow and crosses in front of her. Finally in the clear, he stands up and grabs her hand, pulling her along at a half run until they reach the next door and dart inside.

By now she's fully laughing, leaning up against the freezer and holding her stomach. Her face is glowing, and her eyes shine with amusement as she looks at him standing by the door.

Monk's cheeks hurt from the huge grin that's spread across his face. He can remember Veronica chuckling, snorting, even giggling, but none of the laughter that makes it hard to catch your breath since before Lilly died.

"What the hell was that all about?" she finally sputters, when she's calmed down enough to speak full sentences again.

Sticking up his pointer finger, Monk uses it to make a circle and points to the freezer behind her. She spins around and looks back at him, cocking an eyebrow.

"Is this one of those new-fangled things I keep hearing about that keeps food cold?"

 _And bodies, smartass._ He rolls his eyes and pulls out two bowls, plus a couple of spoons.

Veronica gives the freezer a happier, appraising look. "Ice cream? You have ice cream?"

Monk uses his palm to make a flourishing motion, and she follows orders, yanking open the door and half disappearing in the icebox until she comes up with a couple of large, plastic tubs. "We have Rocky Road and Orange Sherbet."

Her scrunched up nose as she looks at the sherbet broadcasts her preference, but he grabs both tubs from her anyway. After searching the drawers for a scoop, he puts just a bite of each flavor in a bowl and hands it to her.

"You know that since you contaminated the bowl with stupid sherbet, that one's yours, right?"

He holds the bowl out more firmly to her, and tilts his head to indicate a challenge. A challenge he knows she'll never turn down.

With an air of disdain, she grabs the bowl and picks up one of the spoons on the counter. "Fine, whatever. I'll try your gross concoction. But why are guys always trying to talk women into putting things in their mouths?"

_Wait…did she actually just say that?_

Seeing the wide-eyed, frozen expression on his face she grins saucily at him. "What? That was funny." Making a show of mixing the two before she takes a bite, he waits while she rolls the mixture around her mouth, then gives him a look of concession. "Not bad."

Veronica shoves the bowl at him, saying, "But not good. I just want chocolate." She tucks the spoon in her mouth and washes off the scoop before she loads up on Rocky Road, leaving him to serve himself while she noshes. He combines the two flavors, a combination he came up with out of boredom from the unvaried menu on the ship. His favorite flavor, butter pecan, isn't available from their supplier.

They eat their treat in companionable silence. It's rare somebody can stay with him for a long period without feeling an obligation to fill the space with chatter, and he appreciates it.

_Right, like you wouldn't listen to an audiobook of her reading an appliance manual. But this is okay, too._

He's washing out his bowl while Veronica sits on the counter, scraping the side of her dish to eek every drop out of her second helping. Monk grabs it from her while she's still running her spoon around and around, trying to get the last dregs, and she squeals at him.

"Hey! I wasn't finished with that!"

_Just saving you the disgrace of sticking your face in it so you can lick it clean, Jughead._

When he ignores her, she tosses her spoon over his shoulder so it lands in the sink. "Fine. If you're going to steal my bowl you have to wash the spoon too."

_As if that wasn't already going to happen._

"Oh well, I should probably go to bed anyway. Can I ask you a favor, though?"

Monk turns from his chore, dropping her cleaned spoon in the dish drainer as he faces her.

"That guy you assigned to take me down to the body check tonight, Javier."

Monk leans back and crosses his arms, waiting to hear her favor.

"He just… he was a little freaked out. He kept jumping at the littlest things and talked my ear off. Can you have somebody else take me down tomorrow, or give me a set of keys?"

_Shit, there's no one else to send, and Diego will have my head if I loan anybody else my keys. Maybe he'll split the duty with me, though._

But the day has changed things. At some point Veronica's presence stopped being painful to him. Monk can't remember the last time he's had so much fun on this boat, and decides adding a few more good memories to his bank before she returns to her son and husband would be harmless. They had lots of fun before, when they were just friends.

Nodding, he points to himself, and uses his finger to make a cross over his heart.

Veronica huffs out a laugh, going out the galley door as he holds it open for her. "Stick a needle in your eye?"

Monk follows her to where their berths are, a mere ten feet from each other. Her door is reached first and, to him, it feels oddly like a date. If this were twelve years ago, during the summer between high school and college when they were at their best, he would have her pinned against the wall while blindly reaching for the door and—

_And we already agreed no good can come of thinking like that._

When she turns around to face him, and wishes him goodnight, he totally chokes. He pulls some moment out of a bad 80s sitcom and sticks his hand out, shaking hers formally when she warily meets the gesture.

Her authentic-sounding British accent makes him smirk. "Why yes, sir. A lovely evening, indeed. Cheerio."

Her grin thrills as she lets go of his hand and slips into her door, leaving that tingly feeling in his palm again. He shuffles outside her berth for a minute longer than etiquette requires, but he's reluctant to put anymore distance between them. Finally, though, he moves off toward his room.

_It's probably safer. If I keep hanging out here I might break into a rendition of "On the Street Where You Live"._

His body is exhausted, worn from the little sleep he had the night before and the emotions that have coursed through him during the day. But his mind won't stop spinning. Grabbing his dopp kit, he goes to the head and takes a shower. One that is as hot as possible, hoping the heat will relax him and his brain can just shut the fuck up.

Lying in his bunk after, he still can't sleep and he doesn't have the focus to read. His usual method of self-soothing isn't an option tonight, despite the state of near-constant arousal he's been in all day.

Veronica is crowding his brain and it would be so easy to let her invade him, but tomorrow would be more difficult as a result. As for Eva, it's dishonest to use her like that after all his thoughts and emotions about Veronica over past twenty-four hours. Even within the confines of his own head he owes Eva more, a hell of a lot more, least of all honesty. It's the deal they struck nine years ago.

_He wakes up, the moon shining through the window like a spotlight. He's not sure if that's what disturbed his sleep, or the low-pitched keening that's coming from outside. Since the image of Veronica's face the last time he saw her was in his dream, he's sure it's the latter._

_Throwing on his shorts, he shuffles his way out to the back porch where he know he'll find Eva. Even before they become lovers, when she was just his housekeeper and then his friend, he occasionally heard her out here in the middle of the night._

_That was how they started. Once they knew each other for a year, the barrier of strangers wore down. He could no longer lie in his bed and listen to her cry, pretending to sleep while she tended her broken heart. Finally approaching her that night, he wordlessly held her while she sobbed in his arms and told her story._

_At twenty-nine she was happily married to Eduardo, the kindest, most loving man that ever existed - at least to hear her tell it. They had a two-year-old son and she was pregnant with their second when the car accident had happened. She lost them all, as well as the ability to have more children._

_If anyone understood loss, it was him; though he came to realize nothing compares to the loss of a child. But he held her while Eva cried that night, and several nights after. Helping her seemed to ease his own pain. Finally, after another year of giving each other friendship and comfort, she decided for both of them. She came into his bed instead of waiting for him to find her on the porch, and their lovemaking had been a relief; they were both the type of people that craved touch. It was when he called out at the end that she busted him on his fake muteness. He was glad though, because it became increasingly wearing to never talk to anybody._

_Tonight he finds her in her usual spot, hugging her knees and rocking gently on the porch swing. He sits and wraps an arm around her while she cries into his chest. After some time she calms and watches the waves with him._

" _Do you want to talk about them?" Sometimes this helps her, even though it's usually a repeat of what she's told him before._

" _No, not tonight. I sick of me. Tell me why your heart is also break." Her accent is even thicker when she's upset, but she's the one that insisted they speak English since she wanted to get better at it. Now it's a habit between them._

_He runs his fingertips up and down her back, and kisses the top of her head. "I told you, I can't talk about it."_

_She sits up, the moonlight shining off of her skin and underlining the glare she's giving him. "Ándate a la chucha! I tell you everything. You tell me nothing."_

" _It's easier that way."_

_The anger makes her practically vibrate, and she jumps off the swing to stand over him. "No. It makes me whore. You pay me. I live you house, I eat you food. I suck you cock, but you no talk to me!"_

" _I pay you to cook and take care of the house, like always. Not for sex. Trust me, Eva, you're not a whore. There's just a lot you don't know."_

_She leans over and moves her glare a mere six inches from his face. As she yells, he can feel a fine spray hit his chin. "Because you no talk to me!"_

_When he just glares back, and doesn't move away from her, she narrows her eyes meanly. "Veronica."_

_He's never told Eva anything about his past. That she can throw Veronica's name at him as if it's ammunition means she's been lying to him for…how long? Since she started working for him? Or since somebody figured out his real identity and tipped her off? Maybe a reporter. Maybe not. The tremors of fear start from his feet and course up his legs, making his balls practically crawl into his body. He has to clench his fists to keep from grabbing her. "Where. The. Fuck. Did you hear that name?"_

" _You, you sleeptalk asshole! When you to sleep and pull me close, that what you say."_

_He did this. He gave her the name she's dangled in front of him. The panic abates, leaving room for the rational part of his mind to take over. No reporters are about to descend on his new, peaceful life and cause him to run again. Nobody will open a newspaper tomorrow and find out where he's living. And even if his sham was about to fall apart, it wouldn't be because of Eva. By now he knows she would never intentionally hurt him._

" _I finish with wait for you. You tell me now, who is Veronica, or I leave you."_

_He gets it, mostly because of Veronica. They once had a similar discussion that came down to the same thing Eva said; a roll in the hay did not a relationship make. The time has come for truth, not only for Eva's sake, but because he's tired of holding it all in._

_So he tells Eva everything. His real name, his parents. Then Lilly, Duncan, and most importantly, Veronica, starting from when they were twelve and through their year at Hearst. When he finally gets to the end, the sun is rising and they've moved into the kitchen to finish talking over coffee._

" _Wait, I not understand. You just leave? She love you and you leave her?" Eva's brow furrows as she tries to make sense of this._

" _I had to. There wasn't another choice."_

_The anger comes back to her in increments, first coloring her cheeks, then widening her eyes. He reaches out to touch her hand and she jumps out of her chair, ignoring when it hits the wall behind her._

" _Eduardo dead. My sons dead._ I _no have other choice."_

_She has a point, and he knows how much she carries this pain around with her. She'll be fine for weeks, and then something small, like hearing a child laugh, will set off a torrent of grief. Of course she wouldn't understand this._

" _Okay, fine. I made a choice and I'm living with it. She's living with it. But isn't that kind of the point?"_

" _You no speak, you run and hide, you live with woman you no love. You say that is life?"_

_Familiar with the tempestuous side of Eva, he doesn't try to touch her again. So, instead, he leans back and studies her; hip jutted to the side, hand resting on it and causing her elbow to angle, leaning toward him with a fury that makes the air around her shimmer._

" _I only ran because of her. This_ is _my life now. I talk to you, and I care about you, even if I'm still in love with her. I thought you especially could understand that."_

_The angry shimmer slowly fades, and she leans back, dropping the hand and crossing her arms as she studies him. "And this enough is for you?"_

_Their future together hangs in the outcome of his answer; he can feel that and he hates the thought of losing Eva. She's come to mean more to him than he had thought possible. He hasn't had a best friend since kicking Dick out, after overhearing the guy was partly responsible for that damn video of Veronica and Piz going viral._

" _If it includes you, yes. Is it enough for you?" Eva's told him she doesn't think she could fall in love with another man; that she'll never marry again. He'd have said it's a fatalistic attitude to have at thirty-four, but at twenty-three he feels the same. They both understand what it means to commit your heart to someone._

_Eva presses her lips together and she shakes her head, causing his empty stomach to flip sickeningly as he reads it as rejection. "I no understand for you, but for me, yes. Is enough."_

_She comes and settles her solid form in his lap. He's joked that she could be an Amazon; she stands almost as tall as he does, her frame is layered in muscle, and her skin is dark brown and taut. There's no scooping her up or manipulating her physically, which makes it all the sweeter when she turns herself over to him._

Tonight, thinking of Eva and Veronica, Monk stares up at his ceiling and ponders the fairy tales they were all fed since childhood; that trope of meeting your one true love and living happily ever after.

_Who even came up with those notions? People fall into a myriad of configurations. How realistic is it you'll meet that one perfect person at the right time, in the same geographical sphere, and everything will work out?_

It's a concept that sells billions of books and movie tickets every year. One even he buys into to get caught up in a story. But the words THE END are false, since they appear just when the tale begins. The filmmakers and authors add epilogues that show a wedding and pictures of a happy couple, but they never reveal the aftermath of a wet road and driver error. They cut and print once the couple reconciles, but don't show the breakup in a parking lot the next day.

And those stories leave out the most important lessons: that 'happily ever after' is a temporary concept, given that someone always leaves or dies; that 'one true' is subjective, considering how many different people we are capable of loving within a lifetime; that love can develop long after you start sharing a home and a life together; that just as you can love all your children, both your parents, and every sibling concurrently, romantic love isn't necessarily limited to one person at a time.

Eva's never resented his love for Veronica, just as he hasn't resented hers for Eduardo. Both have been the topic of many open conversations, though it's a long time since either of their names has come up. The extraneous, silent duo in their foursome has faded more into the background every year.

Until now. Now Veronica is as present in his mind as Eva and he's not sure how long it'll take for her to fade again. He can get through that – he's done it before. But Eva will never have a chance to see Eduardo again. It feels like he's cheating on their arrangement, and is helpless to stop it; it's a strange type of infidelity.

His head is heavy with all the thoughts weighing it down, and he pushes back into the pillow. He's on the edge of crazy, and may go completely over if he can't think of something to distract himself. Since counting things never helps, he tries to remember the words to a complicated poem he once knew.

_When you're lying awake with a dismal headache, and repose is taboo'd by anxiety,_  
_I conceive you may use any language you choose to indulge in without impropriety;_  
_For your brain is on fire - the bedclothes conspire of usual slumber to plunder you:_  
_First your counterpane goes and uncovers your toes, and your sheet slips demurely from under you;_

It seems to be working - the effort at recall not allowing Monk to focus on anything else. Until he gets stuck trying to remember the second verse.

_Torn between two lovers, feelin' like a fool  
Lovin' both of you is breakin' all the rules_

_Poetry, not lyrics. And only an horse's ass would soundtrack me with 70s soft rock right now. That's not helping._

_Here I am playing with those memories again_  
_And just when I thought time had set me free_  
_Those thoughts of you keep taunting me_

Monk chuckles in the dark room. The release that comes from picking apart any situation to mine it for dark humor makes him feel lighter, but he can't let it continue or he'll be up all night.

_Air Supply? That is so not funny. I'm in actual emotional pain here. Distraught as all get out, motherfucker, so knock it off._

_Over you, over you_  
_I guess I never will be over you_  
_I have tried but it's so hard to do_  
_I'm surrounded by the memories_  
_No, I never will be over you._

Grabbing his pillow and placing it over his head, Monk groans loudly and tries to suffocate himself. He hopes it'll kill the fucker that's channeling Casey Kasem in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to nevertothethird for lending me her brilliant brain so some sense could come of this.
> 
> A/N: For those who are interested, the poem is A Nightmare by Sir W.S. Gilbert. The songs are Torn Between Two Lovers by Mary MacGregor, Here I Am by Air Supply, and Over You by Anne Murray. And I blame my mother that I know these songs since I spent my childhood stuck in the car listening to the same LiteFM stations Aaron Echolls always seemed to be tuned into.


	4. Friends

The next morning’s breakfast is pancakes.  Flat, tasteless, overcooked pancakes that contain lumps of unmixed flour.  Javier put out tubs of peanut butter and jelly, knowing it was the only way most of the men could choke them down.

Monk has the fortune of being the first person to breakfast, so at least he gets them when they’re hot.  Making four sandwiches, he climbs his way up to the wheelhouse at ten after six.

_I swear if Javier wasn’t Diego’s cousin he’d be gutted for chum and dropped off the bow._

“Hey, hombre.  You’re up early.” Diego stands up and stretches, turning down the Latin music keeping him company.

Monk shrugs, handing two of the PBJ powder shingles to Diego. It’d been another night of little sleep, unable to shut down the LiteRock mocking him.  Or the voice asking if it really was the best option, to let Veronica believe Logan was dead.  Even if it gave her closure, and kept her from hating him, Monk knew how unfair it was.

“Ah, Serote!  That’s it. I’m banning pancakes from the menu.  What’s with all the gringo breakfasts anyway?”

They’d come up with shorthand for the names of the crew members.  Shaping his hand into a ‘C’, Monk mimes whacking off, then clutches his stomach and makes a sick face.

“Chuck can get himself on a white man’s ship if he wants white man’s food. Fuck him, I’m the captain.”

_Yeah, Fuck Chuck…fee fi fo fuck.  Wait, I think there’s personalized theme song in there._

“Speaking of Chuck, I heard something went down between the two of you yesterday?”

Monk tilts his head and lifts his eyebrows, his signal for Diego to elaborate though he knows exactly what incident he’s referring to.

“Connor said Chuck was talkin’ disrespectful about that lady fed and you put him in line.”

Nodding his head, Monk grins when Diego puts a hand up and gives him a high-five.

“Nicely done. Three days is a long time for her to have to fend off that gilipollas. Glad you shut it down early.”

_Knowing Chuck, I probably haven’t shut it down. But if Veronica shoots him we’ll all back her up on a self-defense plea._

Diego eyes the sandwich he’s holding suspiciously but takes a bite anyway, spitting a floury lump into the garbage can. “Weather still looks like it’ll be clear the whole way.  Good thing. I want these bodies off my ship as soon as possible.”

They sit in silence, breaking their fast until Diego throws his remaining sandwich in the garbage.  “You mind taking the wheel? I’m gonna get some real food, then I’ll be back.  I’ll give you the ship again at eight.”

Monk nods and waves him away, checks their course and settles back for the half hour it takes for Diego to return.  He has Veronica with him.

“Hey, Monk.  This lady was looking for you. Get your lazy assout of my chair and take her on her body check.”

Veronica’s long hair is pulled up and held by some kind of clip, likely in response to the heat.  She’s wearing off-white cotton trousers with a dark blue t-shirt, very fed-like. Monk can feel the smile that works itself across his face, and is gratified when it’s met with her own.

He walks over to her, giving a silent laugh when she sticks her hand out and continues with her accent and formality from last night. “Good morning, Mr. Lynch.  I hope sleep found you well.”

Monk grabs her hand, but instead of shaking it, he uses it to twirl Veronica and pull her out of the wheelhouse. He inwardly cringes, wishing he’d thought it through before he did something so overt.  But he relaxes again when she laughs and follows him, giving his grasp a little squeeze before letting go so they can clamber down the stairs.

In the cooler he watches, standing in the door as she walks to a body bag just above the woman with the rings and squats down, frowning. The bag is already half-unzipped, and she opens it all the way.  The room is cold, but they’re a lot closer to the equator than they were the day before, and it’s already hot and muggy above deck.  This would be a pleasant place to linger for a few minutes if it weren’t so macabre.  He turns from the sight of her doing her examination and silently counts the bodies in the room.  One for each of the next thirty-five seconds until his eyes finally reach the last person, whom Veronica is still crouched next to.

Walking over and squatting beside her, Monk taps her shoulder and points around the room, indicating the corpses surrounding them.

“What are you asking?”

Finger spelling slowly, going backward when she gets a letter wrong, he spells out, ‘W-H-A-T H-AP-P-E-N-E-D?”

“Did you hear about what Petturi told everyone at dinner the other night?”

Monk nods his head, holds his hands facing each other, fingertips touching before expanding them outward and mouthing “more”.

“More.”  Veronica opens the bag wider to reveal a young woman in her late twenties, with wide, large eyes, though they are mercifully closed.  Her skin is slightly bloated, her lips blue and pressed tightly together, and her pallor has an ashen sheen to it. 

His stomach rebels against his subpar breakfast, but he works to keep his placid expression set so Veronica won’t notice.

“I can’t tell you much, just that it’s not as scary as you’re all probably thinking.  As deaths go, it’s not the worst thing I’ve seen.”

Possible scenarios that could render so many people dead, with no visible wounds, run through Monk’s head.  He’s unable to stop staring at the young woman’s face -- until he can’t stand to do so anymore.  Monk whirls around, walks to the cold door and presses his forehead against it to prevent himself from losing complete control over his gag reflex. 

He can hear the zipper closing ehind him, and Veronica’s quick footsteps are followed by the feel of her hand stroking his back.  It helps and it hurts, as all his attention is now tuned to her fingertips as they move over him. One hand, up and down, with no urgency behind the gesture.  It’s not the first time she’s touched him like this.

_May 2007_

_They sit side-by-side on the white leather couch in his penthouse, shoulders touching, both of them slumped down and staring at the blank television.  They’ve been talking for hours, getting through much of what they hadn’t dealt with over the past year.  She cried, admittedly so did he, and they’ve settled into peaceful silence._

_Logan turns his head and studies her profile. She’s worrying her thumbnail between her teeth, but not actually biting down.  “Veronica, where does all this leave us?  Do you think we can be friends again?”_

_He allows himself to hope for that this conversation is about being accepted back into her life, rather than closing that door forever.  She said they were done, then was so cold to him in the cafeteria when he tried to apologize for beating up Piz.  It scared the hell out of him.  Through the tumult of the past few years she’s been the one person he could count on._

_She lets go of the thumbnail and turns to look at him.  They study each other at the close distance, and she answers him by touching her lips tentatively to his._

_When Veronica pulls back Logan follows, reaching a hand to cup the back of her head and bringing her to meet his mouth again.  She tastes as she always had, not sweet or tart, just…Veronica.  The kiss is a slow building one, questioning and probing, each pushing a little farther in turn._

_He keeps his hands from exploring, leaving one behind her head and the other spread at her back, pulling her as close as he dares.  She’s the one to tip their tentative balance, climbing into his lap and gripping his hair in a way that lets him know she_ wants _this._

_Logan breaks their momentum, reluctantly pulling back so he can watch her eyes.  Restarting their romantic relationship scares the hell out of him, as much as he wants it._

_“Veronica, are you sure about this?”_

_She gives a slow nod, her eyes softening as her lips lilt in response.  “Logan, I’m sure. I love you.”_

_The little air that was in his lungs pushes out in a chuckle and he closes his eyes, touching his forehead to hers.  So many times he’d hoped she say it; left her openings and waited futilely for her to use them.  It’s the last thing he expected tonight and his swallow is audible. “What did you say?”_

_She laughs and pushes away from him a little, enough to meet his eyes and give him his favorite lopsided smile.  The one that takes up the entire southern hemisphere of her face. “I said I love you.  I should have said it a long time ago.”_

_Their pattern would usually call for him to make a joke or a quip, even to repeat the sentiment back to her.  But he refuses to take any import away from this moment. He knows how hard it’s been for her to finally say it.  Veronica’s giving him a gift, and he wants the echo of her words in the air a little longer._

_Logan moves his head slightly so they can resume their kiss, which she does greedily.  Standing up, he cups his hands under her and maintains contact while he waits for her to lock her legs around his waist, then heads toward the bedroom._

_Through their talks it came out neither had slept with another person since they broke up. He and Parker took things slow for many reasons.  Though Logan doesn’t know why, Veronica and Piz stopped short of doing the deed after what he saw on that video. Maybe it means something that neither of them shared that part of themselves with other people._

_Reaching the bed, he holds onto her while setting his knees upon the mattress and tipping forward, putting out a hand to break their fall and ease her down gently.  Usually they’d commence with a heady round of foreplay, touching and teasing until they were both insane with it, and sharing a few laughs in the process.  But tonight isn’t about sex.  It’s about finding their way back to each other and reestablishing the closeness they perfected last summer._

_They don’t speak, too busy removing clothing in between long, slow kisses.  When there are finally no barriers he pulls her to lie beside him, slinging one arm above him while using his other hand to cradle the back of her head. Hers arms are folded, trapped between their chests and their mouths are completely involved in the moment, giving everything their hands aren’t._

_His skin grows heated everywhere they touch – his chest where her hands rest, his cock that brushes her belly, his thighs against her knees.  When she straightens her legs and presses herself closer, eradicating the few spaces left between them, Logan has to hold himself still for a long moment.  An immense wave of desire courses through him, and then calms to where it can be controlled._

_Veronica seems to understand, not moving for the interminable seconds it takes for the quaking in his breath to still.  He’s not sure which of them initiate the position change.  In the next moment she’s under him, using her thighs to cradle his hips as she pushes up against him._

_He lowers his head to her neck, but she stops him almost as soon as he’s begun, pulling him back up and shaking her head.  Her feet hook around his waist.  She shifts her hips and reaches down to position him just right, and it’s a simple matter of lowering himself.  But he holds back, leaning on his elbows and taking in the sight of her._

_Her eyes are full of love and trust for him; another gift. Her fingertips stroke his back, up and down in a way that is patient, and says she’s enjoying the feel of him under her hands.  Finally he moves slowly into her, taking his time though her slick heat enveloping him says it’s unnecessary._

_Logan sets a slow rhythm and her hips rise up to meet his, matching the unhurried pace as their eyes never waver from each other’s.  All sense of a world outside the small space they’re occupying flees his consciousness; coherent thought is overtaken by the wonder of her soft-eyed gaze as they move together._

_Toward the end, when he knows his body will betray him, he forces himself to hold back his release.  He repositions them slightly, locking the elbow of one arm so he can reach down and touch her in the way he knows will tip her over the edge. It’s bittersweet when her breath hitches and her eyes flutter, working so hard not to lose contact with his._

_Then she breaks and the moment becomes feral; her eyes close a second before his, her back arches, and she cries out. A hand moves to yank his head into the crook of her neck.  He finds himself drawing at her flesh as her nails dig into his scalp and his back.  Her muscles contract around him in a way that is unbearably satisfying. The immense pleasure and pain brings him to the edge of his own climax and he drives hard into her, unable to maintain the tenderness that brought them this far.  He has to let himself go, moving his arms to clutch her tightly as the litany of her name falls from his throat, only to be muffled by her skin._

_When he stills, her whispered, “Logan,” isn’t a question or a prompt. It’s a benediction of everything that brought them here, enriched by her arms and legs pulling him closer, determined not to loosen any hold she has on him._

“Malachy, I’m so sorry.”

_No, dammit, LOGAN.  If I’m not Logan I don’t get to have even the memory of that night._

“I forget not everybody’s used to this.  I’m surrounded by feds all the time and my dad used to be a cop. Sam was in the marines, and now he’s a police detective.  But hey, I’m a blast at slumber parties and around campfires.  Lots of scary stories to tell.”

It takes a moment for his mind to pull itself from the past into the present. He takes a deep breath, moving his head to a cooler part of the door.  Now seeks stability for an entirely different reason than his reaction to viewing that dead body.  But the hand Veronica still has on his back isn’t helping, and they can’t stand here forever.

He shakes his head and opens the door, waiting for her to walk out before he locks it.  It takes him two fumbling tries and, when he finishes and faces Veronica, she’s leaning against the wall, watching him. Concern scrunches her eyebrows together.

That particular memory, of the last time they made love, is one he’s never allowed himself.  It took days for the cuts in his skin to heal.  He can still remember the location of each one, though he spent each of those days avoiding touching or looking at them.

He can feel her watching him as he backs up against the wall and grabs his knees, taking in deep breaths.  But it’s not the bodies or even the memory itself that has him so thrown.  It’s that the recollection was more of a war-veteran style flash back.  Not just involving the events of that night, but also everything he felt at the time.  It’s stunning to realize that he’d worked so damn hard to not be Logan Echolls that he actually succeeded somewhere along the way.

Embodying that nineteen-year-old fuck-up for even a short span of time feels oddly restorative, though he hadn’t even realized he was missing him.  Had _liked_ him, in many ways.

“Malachy, are you okay?”

He is and he’s not; it will probably all back up on him later.  But he’s regaining his equilibrium now that he’s out of the body room, and Veronica’s hand is no longer on his back.  It takes effort, but he pushes the memory into the Logan box in his brain, where it belongs. A box he realizes may no longer stay open or shut at will.

He stands up and takes a deep breath, giving her a closed mouth smile that’s all he can manage given the sheepishness he’s experiencing after his reaction. Finally his brain allows him to recall her words, as if there is a two minute delay in the processing.

_Your husband was a marine? Holy feelings of inadequacy Veronica._

Once his mind has the space to focus on the present, he’s devoured by a curiosity about her husband.  Getting the little information he did, he wants more.  Maybe, if she talks about Sam, he can get a clearer picture of their life together.  He needs the reminder she’s someone else’s now.

 _Do you really want to know,_ Logan _?_

_I figure I’m damned if I do, and damned if I don’t._

_Sure. Tell me if that still holds true, later._

Logan reaches out and touches her wedding ring.  When Veronica shakes her head in confusion, he finger spells S-A-M twice.

She tucks her hands in her pockets.  “Sam? You’re asking about Sam?”

He nods and leans against the wall opposite her, crossing his arms in some combination of forced relaxation and self-protectiveness.  Hopefully she’ll read it as a sign he is settling in for a story.

“What do you want to know?”

 _Everything. Nothing._ He puts up both fists, about twelve inches apart and raises the pointer finger on each, then moves them together.

Veronica’s frown deepens before she asks, “How we met?”  Logan nods at her, and she smiles sympathetically.  “Will that get your mind off the victims?”

He shrugs, then repeats the gesture to indicate he wants to know how they met.

She settles her back against the wall.  Her smile changes into the kind you give when you’re about to convey a happy memory.

“Joint task effort between us feds and the San Diego PD.  Which is a highfalutin’ way of saying Sam and I spent three days sitting in a car together while they caught the bad guy somewhere else.”

When she’s quiet, Logan leans forward and flourishes a hand. _Go on._

“Um, okay.  Sam made the stakeout fun, and we got along great, but I didn’t think about him in a romantic context.  Then the last day, after we got word our job was over, he surprised me and kissed me.” 

Veronica laughs and shakes her head, studying a point on the ceiling above Logan and seeing a memory he’s not privy to.  “I got pissed.  I mean, how dare he, right?”

_He probably understood you would overthink it._

“But when I said that to him, he just laughed at me and said something like, ‘If it was so bad, you don’t have to kiss me back’. Then I realized I _wanted_ to kiss him back. That I’d wanted to kiss him for the past three days but rationalized myself out of it.”

Logan hates their story, mostly because of how right it sounds.  How right Sam sounds for her.  Not only is he a badass ex-marine who can protect her, he’s a police detective.  Sam’s job would make him understand Veronica in a way most other guys wouldn’t.  And now Logan knows the man can also handle her particular brand of tough-girl neurosis.

“Then we started dating, and I kept looking for the fatal flaw, the reason to walk away. I never found it though, just enough little ones that made him human.”

_Am I petty if I want to know the things she doesn’t like about him?  Hell yes, I am, but I can live with that._

Logan cups a hand around his ear to indicate he’s listening, and holds up a finger for a moment, before crooking it in a ‘come here’ type gesture.

“Name one?” _Nod._ Veronica pressed her lips together.  “Okay, let’s see…remember I said I don’t trust easily?”

She doesn’t wait for his answer, just keeps talking.  “Sam volunteered with an animal rescue place, occasionally taking in dogs that were abused and trying to rehab them so they could be adopted out.”

_What. A. Bastard.  Are you serious with this?_

“Anyway, we’d been dating about six months when he brought home Jeannie, this three-year-old German shepherd.  It was so sad; she cowered if you spoke above a whisper.  One night I watched as he worked with her, using different techniques to teach her to trust him.  Tone of voice, eye contact, the way he approached her, being consistent and dependable, stuff like that.  And I realized he’d been using some of the same techniques on me since we’d started seeing each other.”

It shouldn’t be funny.  Veronica with any guy, especially one who seems to actually understand her, has no basis for hilarity.  Logan tries not to laugh, and keeps his mouth closed, but has to suffer the snort of amusement that comes out his nose.

Veronica rolls her eyes and lightly kicks his shin. “Yeah, thanks. Hilarious.  Mostly I was pissed off because it’d been working.”

He presses his lips together and squelches any more noise.  But, since his shoulders are shaking and his face feels hot, Logan knows he isn’t fooling her.  Given her grin as she watches, he’s not the only one to see the humor in it.

Humor that fades as he realizes what Veronica’s just told him; she _trusts_ Sam.  The one thing Logan always wanted her to just give, and Sam worked for it – earned it.  The flaw she handed him isn’t good enough. 

Holding up two fingers, he does the crooking gesture again. _Give me another._

Veronica narrows her eyes at him.  “This is starting to feel really one-sided.  Why don’t you tell me about your lady?  It’s obvious the same woman did all the drawings in your room.”

_Good thing she wasn’t in there longer.  She might have Agatha Christied all my secrets._

Logan hesitates, but he wants to tell her.  Even if she thinks he’s someone else, he wants to share the best part of his life with his oldest friend.  He picks up Veronica’s hand and slowly draws Eva’s name into her palm.  He could’ve finger spelled it, but it feels like an impersonal way to tell her about someone who’s so important to him.

“Eva?” she asks.  _Nod_. “Pretty name. How long have you been together?”

He grasps Veronica’s wrists and raises her hands until they’re in front of her, loose with the fingers splayed, then folds down one of her thumbs.

“Nine.  Nine months?”

Head shake _, ‘No.’_

“Nine years?”

_Nod, ‘Yes.’_

Veronica’s eyes open wide, studying his. “How come nobody told me about her when I asked around?”

Logan presses a finger against his lips.  _Nobody knows.  Except Diego, who keeps my secrets._

“God, you’re an enigma. Wait, did I get it wrong…is Eva really Evan?” Her coquettish smirk tells him she doesn’t think this is actually the case, but she’s never been one to turn down an opportunity to tease.

He puts up a flattened palm an inch below his own height, and uses both hands to outline a female shape in between them.  His open palm circles his face in the hand sign for ‘beautiful’, finishing with kissing the fingertips and opening them as if he were an old Italian man.

Veronica look gets wistful, and she crosses her arms, leaning against the wall behind her.  “She’s tall?  I always wanted to be tall.”

Logan rolls his eyes at her. _I say what a beautiful woman Eva is, and that’s what you walk away with?_

“Ok, now it’s your turn to give me one of her faults. Make it a good one, huh?” 

_Am I imagining that she seems eager to hear this?  Why would she have any investment in Eva’s virtues?_

He thinks hard about Eva, trying to choose an imperfection.  Her English is flawed, but so what.  Logan loves the way she drops little words and rolls his bought name around her mouth before saying it, turning the I sound at the end into a long eee.  Though she’s a skilled artist, her art isn’t to his usual taste. But she enjoys doing it so much he appreciates her pictures for that reason alone.  She has a temper, but so does he and an occasional fight isn’t a bad thing. She can vacillate quickly between tender and rough, but he needs both from a partner.

“Aw, man. She’s not only tall, she’s perfect?”

_Perfect, no.  She can be bossy and demanding, and she’s always convinced she’s in the right. She doesn’t appreciate sarcasm and, since she’s the only person I talk to, I’m left with cracking jokes in my head.  We don’t like any of the same movies so most of my references fly right past her.  We have different ideas about how to spend down time – though I appreciate her ambition and she’s learned to take time to relax._

He snaps his fingers and mimes holding a book, like he did yesterday. Only this time he rolls his eyes and chuffs out a sound of disgust, before tossing the imaginary book over his shoulder.

“She doesn’t like books?”

_Too much of an understatement._

Logan repeats the book motion, pretending to read it before yawning, then throwing it down and stomping on it.

“She,” Veronica pauses, thinking, “hates to read?”

Emphatic nod, _yes._ Eva will sit and paint for hours, but has no patience for the written word. It’s nothing against storytelling; she loves plays, operas, movies and television, but her appreciation for art is limited to the visual. 

“Sam, too.  Gai’s more like me; he taught himself to read by the time he was five and hasn’t stopped since.  I love getting lost in a good book, but I’m usually too busy to read one.  Speaking of which, I’m almost done with ‘The Dangerous Husband’. I can’t believe she went on the lam with his pet frog!”

They share a laugh, and Logan remembers this.  Once, when looking to borrow a t-shirt, Veronica found half of his dresser drawers were filled with books.  He’d always been circumspect about his gluttonous reading habits, embarrassed, but she found him out.  That summer he loaned her books to take on her stakeouts and they talked about them afterward. It’s one more thing he’s missed about her.

“And that scene in the vet’s office, when she learns what happened to his past animals?” Veronica snickers, shaking her head. “I’m not sure if the narrator will survive the book. Or if she should. In her own way, she’s as awful as he is.”

_Like Kathleen Turner and Michael Douglas in ‘War of the Roses’._

“Did you ever see ‘War of the Roses’? One the best movie endings, ever.  I’ve got a feeling the book’s headed in that direction.”

 _Okay. That just happened._ Logan’s grin is massive, and it feels like it’s taking up the entire bushy, bottom half of his face.

They head back updeck, and part ways.  He still has a little while before he has to relieve Diego and there are assignments to be handed out.

* * *

It’s after one and Logan’s stomach is growling like a tomcat during a full moon when Veronica shows up at the wheelhouse. She has a covered plate balanced on top of what looks like a couple of books, and a soda tucked under her arm.

All morning various memories from their past have been coming to the forefront, as if that one memory were the Pied Piper and the others are all following.  It’s a relief to see the live action version of Veronica again, since this one doesn’t view him with any more history than the past two days in her eyes.

“I was bringing your book back, so volunteered to bring your lunch too.  Though I don’t recommend it. I honestly didn’t think anyone could screw up pupusas.”

_Wolfgang Puck, Javier is not._

Logan takes the plate and drink from her and nods his thanks, biting into the subpar meal anyway. Hunger has its own seasoning, and he’s used to making do.  Eva more than makes up for it with her cooking when he’s home.

_Eva. Damn. I’m sorry this situation is jacked up. It’s not fair to be missing you this much when I’m so glad to be sitting here with Veronica._

Veronica sets one of the books on the shelf to his left.  Logan recognizes the red spine of the novel he loaned her, and he’s able to see the other item isn’t a book but an electronic tablet.  She tips it in his direction.  “I thought, if we got to talking, this would make it easier.  So far you haven’t been real big on details.”

He holds his hand out for the tablet and puts it in his lap while he finishes his meal.  She’s patient, looking out the window while he eats.

_Why does it seem like she keeps singling me out?  I wonder what her husband would say about that.  Sure as hell if Sam and I were to switch places I wouldn’t want her talking up some sailor._

When he puts his plate to the side and picks up the tablet, she hoists herself onto the shelf and faces him, swinging her feet. 

“I hope you don’t mind me coming up here to hang out.  Not that I don’t enjoy your company, but Petturi finds me everywhere else I go.”  Veronica lifts her lip into a disgruntled snarl.  “He keeps cornering me to brag about all his success on assignments, like I’m some bar floozy he’s trying to impress.  I’m tempted to whip it out and say ‘Hello! I have one too!’”

Logan takes a pointed glance at her pants, which makes her snort and flash her FBI badge.  “Stop. This is a family show.” She tucks the badge back in her pocket and tilts her head at him. “But it’s tiring to talk to a guy who’s convinced he put the bomp in the bomp-sh-bomp-sh-bomp. Okay if I hide out here for a few?”

The sinking sensation in his gut isn’t disappointment.  It couldn’t be.  The feeling must be relief that she isn’t interested in anything but an escape hatch from Petturi.  Logan’s forced silence is probably what she’s most drawn to.

_Either way, it’s not like I can resist a Veronica Mars head tilt._

Logan holds up a hand, finger spelling O K, then turns his attention to the huge swatch of uncluttered sea before him.  Like he has to keep his eyes on the road so he doesn’t hit anything.

Veronica stretches out a foot and nudges the tablet in his lap.  “I’ve spent almost two days on this raft, and I have to say, you don’t strike me as your typical sailor.  These other guys seem to fit in here, but you’re just…different.  Did you ever want to do anything else?”

So she does want him to talk.  He looks down at the tablet.  It’s better than a pad of paper; she can’t use it for handwriting recognition and he can delete anything he writes. Pulling up the keypad, he starts typing, keeping one hand on the wheel.

‘Sing alto in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. I haven’t given up on that dream.’

She rolls her eyes at him. “Alto? Now I get why you don’t talk.”    

‘Auctioneer? Circus Barker? DJ? I’m still a young man. Don’t mock my dreams.’

“Why did I know you would be a smartass? Give me my tablet back.”  She holds out her hand, but he ignores her, typing again.

‘Maybe I’ll be a fed.  Would that be a good job for me?’

“Sorry, they filled their sarcasm quotient when they hired me.”

‘Oh well.  I hate wearing suits anyway.’

She exhales an exasperated laugh. “Yeah, ‘cause otherwise you’d blend.  But you made your point.  Change of subject.”

God he’d missed that – the back and forth, give and take, quip and crack that comprised at least half their conversations.  There was no one in his present life to play with him in that way; she had her dad, and from what he remembered Mac and Wallace could bring it when needed.  It made him wonder about Sam, and then decided that was one thing he absolutely didn’t want to know.

He pokes around on the tablet.  ‘Did you get to talk to your son today?’

The smile is back, the one he now thinks she uses just for Gai. “Did I tell you he plays the sax?” 

Logan shakes his head, _No._

“Started when he was barely five.  The thing was almost as big as he was.  Sam’s mom is a musician; it’s her fault Gai wants to be the next Frank Trumbauer.  We were at their house for dinner and Gai asked about her record player—I’ve never had one.  She put on some vintage recording and he was hooked.  She started teaching him the sax right after. Anyway, he’s learning a new song and it was all he talked about.”

‘You like your in-laws?’

Her hesitation is telling. She puts up a hand, holds it flat and wavers it in the air. “Giv, Sam’s dad, is a sweetheart. We get along great.  But Endora -- sorry, _Lois_ \-- and I aren’t the best of friends.  I was never good enough for her son and she makes sure I know it.  She tried to fake it at first, but the only reason she even pretends to tolerate me anymore is because of Gai.  Those two…” She holds up her crossed fingers in illustration.

_Well, you wouldn’t be Veronica Mars if you weren’t making enemies somewhere._

“Give me the tablet. I’ll show you something.”

Logan hands it to her and she taps around for a minute. When she gives it back a video is cued up, about two minutes long, the paused screen showing only a fuzzy gray.  He hits the play button and the gray turns out to be carpet.  The camera raises to show a little kid wearing a flat cap, a pair of sunglasses and a little black blazer.  He’s holding onto a large saxophone hanging around his neck.  In the back is an older woman on the piano.   They’re in an over-decorated living room with framed album covers on the walls.

Logan grins at this first image of her son.  The kid is standing so confidently, almost cocky as he listens to the music playing in the background.  Hearing his prompt, Gai blows into the mouthpiece and works the buttons of the sax.  It’s a little – okay, a lot – rough.  But you can see how hard the boy is working it, his cheeks blown out and swaying in between notes, like the greats do.  All he’s missing is a beat-timed finger snap.

“His first public concert.”  Veronica’s smile is full of pride, and humor.  “He learned how to snap right after that, and does it to keep time in between his parts.  At least, that’s what he says.  Really it’s because he thinks it looks cool.”

Logan watches the video until it ends, then restarts and runs it through again before reluctantly giving her the tablet back.  He would love to keep it and see if there’re any more videos, or glimpses into her life.

_No, dude.  That way lies madness._

“Malachy?” 

He turns to look at her, wondering at the question in her voice.  She’s working her lower lip between her teeth, her forehead scrunched up into wrinkles.

“Is this weird?  I mean, we’ve barely known each other a day, but it feels like we’re friends.  And I don’t make friends that easily.  If I’m bothering you please let me know. I’m told I can be…pesky.”

_Could be because the first time you meet people, you usually accuse them of something or ask for a favor.  Makes them a little prickly – though it’s one of my favorite things about you._

But he’s gratified to know the connection isn’t on his end alone; she’s not up here just to hide.  They always were friends, even when they didn’t act like it.  Richard Dreyfuss narrates in his head, a la ‘Stand by Me’. “I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was twelve. Jesus, does anyone?”

Logan points to the tablet and she hands it to him, waiting while he types. ‘[True friendship comes when the silence between two people is comfortable.](http://thinkexist.com/quotation/true_friendship_comes_when_the_silence_between/13123.html) ~David Tyson.’  He turns it around to show to Veronica, then wants to pull it out of her sight when he realizes what he’s done.

_Quotes. Why not just type ‘Today’s inspirational message’ while you’re at it, idiot.  Your best bet is to probably overplay this hand._

Veronica laughs, but he can see that flicker of uncertainty as he turns into a ghost in front of her eyes again.  She plays it off by punching his shoulder lightly. “You would know.”

‘If friends were flowers I’d pick you’.

She gives what could only be described as an ‘ _oh, please’_ expression. “Now you’re just being a smartass again.”

‘[Friends are like bras: close to your heart and there for support.](http://thinkexist.com/quotation/friends_are_like_bras-close_to_your_heart_and/341671.html)’

She grabs the tablet from him, genuinely laughing now. “You are officially cut off.”

Logan sticks out his lip and pouts, holding onto the wheel while stretching to reach the device she’s put  out of his reach.

“No! Get your own.  Anyway, I’ll see if I can scare up trouble elsewhere.  I’ll see you later.”

He watches as she goes down the stairs, smiling when their eyes meet before she drops from his sightline.  Time has always moved at a moderate pace since he’s worked this ship; there isn’t much in his life that creates either anticipation or dread to change the pace of the clock.  But the two hours before he can go find her again stretch out interminably before him.

* * *

Carlos is a frustrating fifteen minutes late relieving him.  This isn’t unusual, and normally Logan doesn’t care, but today he’s irritated as hell.

He hands over the helm, giving simple, hurried instructions about their minor course corrections before heading out.  Carlos throws a comment over his shoulder that unknowingly gives him just what he wanted.

“Hey, go over to the aft deck.  That lady fed is there and turned it into a bit of a party.”

Once outside, Logan can hear the music playing, a raucous Los Prisioneros number, and follows it to the source.  There he finds Javier, Chuck, Winston, Connor, and even that FBI guy, clapping and swaying along while one of the young navigators, Louis, gives Veronica a salsa lesson.

She doesn’t move with the naturalness of Louis, or even Eva, but she’s not bad for a novice.  Logan pulls himself up to sit on top of a large storage box and watches.  Louis is a patient teacher, and Veronica’s the best kind of student.  She listens to all his instructions, repeats them back, and takes it in stride when she messes up. 

Eva loves to go dancing, so taught Logan to be ‘eh…okay’ at this.  When she gave him lessons, he got embarrassed when he didn’t pick it up immediately. She chided him, saying if he couldn’t get out of his own damn head he may as well sit at home while she went out to the clubs without him.  This, he knows, is why Veronica picks up new skills so easily; she doesn’t let self-doubt or embarrassment get in her way.

_July 2002_

_“Why are we doing this on the beach?  I thought you surfed in the water.” Veronica wrinkles her nose at the board lying in the sand at her feet._

_Logan looks at her, thin almost to the point of being boney, with barely the hint of breasts in her modest tank suit.  Nothing like Lilly, who’s all curves and cleavage as she lies sunning on a towel ten feet away from them. Veronica won’t have the same balance issues Lilly has, and has an innate athlete’s grace, so he knows this’ll be easy for her._

_“You get in the water after you master getting up on the board. Trust me, it’s a lot easier to learn on the beach.”_

_She crosses her arms and gives him a look that is all skepticism.  “Is that true, or did you just watch Point Break too many times?”_

_“Even craptastic Keanu Reeves films have their basis in reality.”  A certain ‘you need a license to catch a fish…but they’ll let any butt-reaming asshole be a father’ line goes through Logan’s head.  “That scene with Lori Petty teaching him to surf they got right.”_

_“Fine, Tyler. Lay your wisdom on me.” Veronica lies back down on the board._

_Logan’s almost irritated enough with her sass to call off the lesson, but there’s nothing else to do.  Duncan’s at soccer camp, there’s no waves, and he can’t leave until Lilly’s dad comes back.  No way is he calling his own father to pick him up._

_So he gives her the verbal instructions, watching when she gets to the practical part of the lesson and letting her know how to correct her form. She falls several times, but doesn’t whine about how hard it is or that she’s so stupid she’ll never figure it out. He hates it when girls do that.  Veronica just stands up, brushes the sand off, and listens to what he’s telling her before trying again._

_In half the time Duncan learned, she’s hopping up on the board and getting into the right crouch.  He’s about to suggest they take the board in the water when she kicks sand on Lilly during one her pop-ups._

_“That’s it, Veronica Mars! You’re going down.”_

_Logan steps back as Veronica makes a break for the water, Lilly right behind her, and then laughs as they both end up going down in the surf._

Veronica and Duncan paired off right after that, and he and Lilly found another activity to take up their time.  When he and Veronica dated, she was too busy with school and her cases to spend a lot of time hanging out on the beach.  They never did finish their lessons. 

Logan holds his breath while the girl she was and the woman she is blend into one strange, confusing image. The woman wins out.  Watching the smooth fluidity she has while dancing, he knows she could still pick up surfing without too much work.

_So what’s your plan, Logan? Going to take shore leave whenever the boat docks in L.A.? Go to the beach with her husband and kid in tow and give them all lessons?  Watch the happy family and stand there like the outsider you are?_

Catching sight of him, Veronica stops dancing and checks her watch. “Uh oh, Louis, you’re late for shift change.”

_Not even two days on board and she knows all our schedules.  Color me not surprised._

Louis grabs her wrist and checks the time, gives Veronica a little hug -- which she returns -- then runs off in the direction Logan just came from. That she allows the casual touch surprises Logan, though it’s innocuous compared to the sultry dance the two just shared.  In the past she was affectionate with only those close to her.  For everyone else she might as well have put up a two foot perimeter.

_One more sign she’s changed, and you don’t know her like you used to._

The thought is unsettling, but about damn time.  Maybe what’s most probable is they’ve both changed enough they wouldn’t even fit together anymore.  Except as friends.

_Wait…are you trying to convince yourself that’s all you still feel for her? Friendship?_

_Would that be such a bad thing?_

_In general, no. In your case, I’m going with the words of Churchill.  ‘The shadow of victory is disillusion’.  But hey, good luck to you._

_…It really sucks when your conscious and subconscious are on speaking terms, you know that?  Leave me alone.  I’m going with this._

Watching as Veronica exchanges some casual words with other members of the crew, Logan can see his warning that kept everyone from talking to her has worn off.  They all seem comfortable with her now, and a couple even joke with her like she’s one of the them.  It makes him wonder what she’s been up to while he was stuck in the wheelhouse.  And, admittedly, a smidge jealous that her friendliness extends beyond him.

The crew members walk away, going about their other pursuits, but Logan sees Trevor Petturi hanging back like he’s waiting his turn.  He can’t decide if the guy is clueless, or auditioning to be her lap dog.  Either would irritate the crap out of her.

The music is still playing when Petturi finally comes forward, holding out his hands to Veronica.  “That looked like fun. Mind sharing a few tips with your fellow agent?”

She backs up and fans herself with her hand, a wan smile on her face.  “No. Too hot, I’m done.  But you’ve lived in Chile for three years, right?  Why didn’t you learn it there?”

Petturi puts down his hands, conceding defeat gracefully.  “Working all the time. Don’t you ever feel like your whole life is the job?”

“No.”  A smile passes across her face and Logan knows she’s thinking of Gai again.  Or Sam, except he’s sure her Sam expression is a little different, though the only way he can think of to explain is that it’s less free.  Not exactly the right description, but it’ll do for now.

“I heard one of the guys mention they were about to set up a poker game in the mess hall _._ You did well last night. You should jump in before they get started,” Veronica prompts.

Petturi glances to Logan, as if trying to figure out why he isn’t leaving like the rest of the crew did.  Logan, ever helpful, gives a huge, smarmy grin.  Veronica couldn’t make herself clearer if she pointed toward the mess and issued a command.  _Shoo, Trevor._

Petturi heads in the direction she suggested, glancing over his shoulder at Logan on the way.  Logan resists the urge for a grand total of about two seconds, then holds up his hand and gives a little finger wave.  _Good Boy._

Her face flushed and dewy from the heat and the activity, Veronica comes over to him.  She pops up beside him, close enough that their knees knock together as she settles herself, and bumps his shoulder.  “I noticed the makings for a decent dinner when we raided the kitchen last night.  Javier said he could use a night off.  Wanna be my sous chef?”

_Hmmm…two or three hours spent with her telling me what I’m doing wrong and cracking herself up with her own jokes?  Sounds like old times. When we used to be friends. Hear me, asshole? FRIENDS._

Logan nods his head with an emphatic _yes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Always and forever thank you to nevertothethird for saving me from myself repeatedly. Only 33 more days until I invade your home and your town so we can meet and fangirl over this movie together!
> 
> A/N: Thank you to everyone for the reviews, favorites and follows. Please keep them coming! I wish you knew the excitement on my end every time a new notice comes in my box. Hmm... I would call it the Keep Scandalpants Excited campaign but somehow that just doesn't sound couth. Maybe it's my handle?


	5. Whiskey and Tears

_I should've known you'd bring me heartache  
Almost lovers always do_

_~'Almost Lover' by A Fine Frenzy_

Veronica issues orders the minute they're in the kitchen. "Put your mop and beard in those net thingies. You're one hairy bastard and that's an ingredient we don't need."

She has a point. When she puts on her own hairnet, Logan catalogs one more amusing memory of her. If this were junior year of high school, jokes would fly about her future as a waitress.

Several bulbs of garlic are shoved in his hand, with instructions to peel and mince them as she rummages around for the rest of the ingredients, then lays them on the counter. Veronica's not even looking at him long enough to give her a smartass salute, so Logan washes his hands and gets to work.

Her efficiency raiding the cabinets, drawers and freezer remind him of the fed she is: thorough, and quick. If Javier has any illegal contraband stashed in here, it'll be found. Though, on the bright side, she might find the keys the idiot lost for the millionth time.

When the counter is piled high and he finishes mincing the garlic, she's standing there looking around.

Logan waves to get her attention, then shrugs his shoulders and throws up his hands. _What?_

"Javier said there's a huge, cast iron skillet. How does he hide that in a kitchen this size?"

He walks over to the stove, and reaches behind it to muscle out the enormous thing. It's about three feet wide, and a six inches deep. And a heavy son of a bitch. Veronica chuckles as he puts it over the large burner on the second stove, specially designed for this purpose.

"Geez, your bicep is about as big around as my thigh. Did you respond to one of those Charles Atlas ads at the back of a comic book?"

 _Like you could resist a guy in a cheetah speedo._ Logan'd gotten so comfortable with her that the quip almost leaves his mouth, and he bites his tongue in frustration.

When she gives him a teasing wink and turns away, Logan goes back to his work at the cutting board.

_Well, don't you think it's about time you tell her?_

_No. Yes. No. Fuck!_

Veronica gives him a large bag of almonds to chop when he's done with the garlic, and she gets busy making salsa. They work companionably, his internal argument making her presence fade into the background, soundtracked by the song she's humming. After a few renditions Logan recognizes the tune - 'Everything Happens to Me' - a Frank Sinatra number his mom had loved.

Catching him staring at her, Veronica quiets and rolls her eyes. "It's Gai's new song. I've got it stuck in my head."

He's disappointed when she doesn't resume the tune, but can't figure out how to ask her to continue. Her voice was always decent and Logan imagines she probably sings her little guy to sleep every night.

Something every little kid should get.

Veronica finishes the salsa and browns the almonds he's chopped, removing them with a slotted spoon and using the same pan to cook the garlic and chicken. Once that's done she adds the salsa, honey, currants, cumin and cinnamon. Meanwhile he sets a large pot of cous cous to cooking, and preps carrots for steaming. Her sure movements say how comfortable she is working in a kitchen, something Logan never got to see before.

While everything in the vat simmers they wash all the prep dishes, then hop up on the counter to wait. Veronica is on his left, and Logan sees her studying his tattoo.

"Is that words? I thought it was a scrolly edge. Can I?"

The lettering is tiny, done in a loopy cursive inside two solid lines that shape the heart. It's rare anyone looks close enough to realize they contain text, but he should have realized Veronica Mars wouldn't miss a small detail like that.

 _Is there any chance you'd let me_ not _show you?_ He laughs to himself. _I'm going with no, since you're already curious._

Giving into the inevitable, Logan holds his arm out to her and she leans over, squinting. "Her kisses leave something to be desired—the rest of her."

Still bent over his arm, Veronica rolls her eyes up to stare at him from under her brows. Her next word is extended in time with three of his heartbeats. "Damn."

Logan can't move his eyes away from hers. Her breath flutters against his arm, and the old, familiar heat extends from his belly. Its tendrils snake up to wrap around his heart at the same time they reach down and give a pointed tug. An involuntary, barely noticeable gasp escapes his lips.

She pulls her gaze away and bumps shoulders with him, seeming not to notice. "You know, that bit about wearing your heart on your sleeve is a cliché. You're not supposed to take it literally."

He picks up the tablet she was still carrying around with her. 'It's why I'm lobbying so tattoo parlors will be required to give sobriety tests.'

Veronica bows her head down and laughs. "Yeah, my twenty-first birthday was a night of very drunk decisions. The tattoo was the least of it."

 _Tattoo? Wait, where?_ Logan's never underestimated her ability to surprise him, but this really does. When he pokes a finger to lift up the edge of her short sleeve, she slaps his hand away, laughing.

"Forget it. Per the video my friend Mac sent me the next day, I spouted a very eloquent, if slurred, poem regarding who would never see that tattoo." She leans in and whispers exaggeratedly, "Apparently, I get a little rhymey when I drink rum."

Veronica smirks, her eyes on his beard, "One of the lines went something like 'never a chance be given to a Neckbeard, lest he be mine and fully sheared'."

 _If the only guy to see her tattoo would be one that's hers, does that mean it's located -?_ That thought is immediately put into the pile of things he'll never be privy to, and ignored.

Picking up the tablet Logan taps out, 'Please tell me you kept the video'. Handing it to her to read, he puts his hands together in prayer and closes his eyes, mouthing _please, please, please._

Veronica laughs and pushes the device back into his hands. "No! Mac deleted it after she showed me why I shouldn't drink. As if the community service sentence wasn't warning enough."

 _Right. The nursing home duty._ 'Now you have to tell me that story.'

She narrows her eyes at him, then holds out her little finger. "Ok, but pinky swear this doesn't get told to Petturi or any feds who meet us at the other end of this trip."

He links his pinky with hers, using his other hand to point at his mouth and roll his eyes.

"Oh, right. Anyway, I come from this small, SoCal town and the sheriff at that time, Vinnie Van Lowe, was a total ass. He used to be a PI, and we had a mutual hate-but-help-each-other-out relationship before he became sheriff."

_Wait, when did they help each other out?_

Logan didn't know Vinnie well, just the depth of Veronica's loathing for him. This little nugget of info reminds him how much she never told him about her cases. It still causes a small pang when he remembers how much he didn't know about her, even when they were together.

Veronica crosses her ankles swings and her feet back and forth. "Anyway, right around my birthday Vinnie was up for re-election. My dad and I were running a private eye business together and had just solved a case, resulting in a big arrest. Unfortunately, that made Vinnie look good enough that the election was in the bag."

_And you couldn't let that go. Tell me you recorded him confessing to taking a payoff._

"On my birthday, when we finished our pub crawl, I got the idea to get a little creative with Vinnie's billboards. But I knew Mac and our other friend, Wallace, would talk me out of it. I waited until they went home and called Dick - another friend of mine – to grab some spray paint and a ladder, and come pick me up.

 _YOUR FRIEND WHO!? What. The. Fuck._ Logan's feet had been swinging back and forth in time with hers, but now they stop as he puts every bit of his energy into making sense of this.

"Vinnie had six billboards, and we defaced all of them before we got nailed." She shakes her head, making the hairnet dislodge. "Turns out the arresting officer was following us since the first one and waited until we finished."

_Who gives a shit? Go back to the Dick being your friend thing. Did an alternate universe develop in Neptune after I left, causing people to reform alliances?_

She pulls the net off her head entirely, gathers up her hair and covers it again. "Thanks to my lawyer, Vinnie agreed to remove the arrest from the records if Dick paid for damages and I did community service. My theory? Vinnie wanted to keep me busy until the election was over. I found out later he had a few nefarious dealings going on right about then."

Logan wants to ask so many questions. All the people she brought up, Vinnie, Mac, Wallace, her dad, and her _are you fucking kidding me_ FRIEND Dick, create a wave of homesickness. He honestly hasn't missed Neptune, or the U.S. for years. People, yes. Places, no. But thinking of everyone at once brings up so many good memories; surfing at Cape Crescent, bonfires on Dog Beach, watching movies in her apartment, and hours of video games with Dick in their penthouse.

It doesn't help that it feels like it used to, hanging out with her. They're sitting next to each other, clutching the edge of the counter with their fingers a mere inch apart. It's reminiscent of so many other times they sat like this, on top of picnic tables, on park benches, and on the hood of her car.

Veronica's hand leaves the counter and she runs a finger over the tattoo on his arm. Logan's eyes follow her movement, seeing the way the hairs on his arm rise at her touch. When he raises his gaze to look at her, she smiles self-consciously.

"So, do I get the story behind this? I told you mine, you tell me yours."

He couldn't ask for a better opportunity. All he has to do is open his mouth.

But what's changed? If he wanted her to know where he was, he could have picked up the phone anytime in the past decade. Her first night on this ship, he chose not to tell her, and again last night when she said he was dead. He made a decision and he's sticking to it. He picks up her tablet.

'Years ago, before Eva, there was a woman. Things didn't work out between us, and I didn't handle it well. I put myself at the bottom of a bottle and when I crawled out, I had both the tattoo and the scar. I don't remember getting it, but I have no question who I was thinking about when I got that heart, with those words.'

Her eyes scan the text, and then move up to meet his. "Why didn't it work out with her?"

There are so many ways to answer that question. Ways that might be different if he were Logan to her, rather than Malachy. He starts and erases his answer three times before he finds one that works.

'Pick your reason. Because I'm an idiot. Because some mistakes you can't take back. Because when you love someone the way I love her, you're willing to let go if it's the best thing for them. And it was. She's married, and has a family now."

Veronica's brow furrows, and when she looks up this time, it's as if she's searching for a deeper answer in his eyes. "You love her. Present tense. What about Eva?"

_Shit. I meant to type 'loved'. What say you, Freud?_

Logan hesitates, mentally editing and rephrasing before he answers. 'Eva's the best thing in my life; we're good together, and I love her. But a part of me will always wonder 'what if?' Does that make sense?'

Veronica's eyes shine. She turns away from him, hops off the counter and crosses her arms as she turns to face him. "Too much sense. I've been where you are, holding onto something that doesn't exist anymore."

The statement makes Logan want to smash the damn tablet against the wall and let go of this entire pretense. Even a fight with her right now would be preferable to this jumpy dialogue format, but instead he looks down at the screen in his hands.

'What did you do about it?'

A "hmph" of a laugh. She closes her eyes, and presses her lips together. "Buried it, at first. Tried to pretend that 'what if' question didn't bother me. But when you're with someone who _really_ has your number, it's difficult to hide things from them."

_That's because you're not as poker-faced as you think. Weird. I'm kind of glad Sam really sees you._

'What kinds of things?'

She bobs her shoulders and shoves her hands in her pockets. "Sam and I, we'd hit that point, you know? Where you either move forward or you end things. I kept putting off discussing it, and Sam figured out why." Her head shake is complimented with a small smile. "The list of people who've been able to fool Sam is shorter than I am."

The nod Logan gives at her joke isn't to acknowledge her attempt at humor; it's to replace the lack of any other response he can give her. He doesn't even want to imagine how she described him and their relationship to her husband.

'But you married him.'

"Yeah." She takes a deep breath and crosses her arms. "We had this _huge_ fight. Sam said he could understand if a part of me still loved Logan, especially since he was my friend longer than my boyfriend. But I was trying to have it both ways – hold on to him while leaving room for Logan to slip back in. That doing that made me an asshole, and he – Sam - deserved better."

_He called you a what?!_

Logan's gut reaction is fury at Sam, but he can't pull that one out of the starting gate. He'd been there before, with Veronica and Duncan. It sucked to believe you're the fill-in until the guy she really wants comes back.

'How did you go from that to 'I do'?

Veronica's nose scrunches up and she laughs. "Groveling? No, seriously the fight helped. It made me realize I had to make a choice."

'Between Sam and Logan.' _But wait, if she met Sam after she graduated from Quantico, she had to have been at least twenty-four. She took five years to let me go?_

Regret and guilt push heavily on his shoulders. He honestly hadn't thought she'd hold on that long. The other times they broke up, she'd bounced back pretty quickly.

"No." Veronica's tone sounds surprised he would see it that way, and she frowns at him. "Between _me_ and Logan. _I_ deserved more, whether things worked out with Sam or not. So I said goodbye."

_You did deserve more. But goodbye? I don't remember that conversation._

'How did that work, exactly? You didn't know where he was.'

She shakes her head. "It wasn't goodbye to Logan, so much as goodbye to US. I put our pictures and mementos in storage. Visited every place we had a memory. Rented the hotel room where he used to live, lay in his bed and cried. Talked to him like he was there, said I hoped he was happy, and that I was moving on."

Logan doesn't know which to react to. Her words create such a sad, lonely image, but with a happy ending.

'And that was it? Just like that, you were able to let go?'

Her brow furrows. "Yes? I mean yes, over time, not in that one day." Her grin is genuine, the earlier tears gone from her eyes. "Luckily, I was in love with the most understanding man on the planet. He gave me the time I needed."

_That smile when you talk about him. You seem happy, Veronica. Please tell me this trip didn't ruin that for you._

'Did you tell Sam the real reason you're down here?'

Her eyes flit away from him, and the smile fades into one that is closed and tight. "Yeah, before I left. I've never lied to him and I'm not about to start now."

Logan knows he should stop. She's dropped any eye contact with him and is fidgety, shuffling her feet and rubbing her hands on her pants. But she hasn't mentioned talking to Sam even once this whole trip. Feeling the plastic edge of the tablet compressing between his fingers, he forces his hand to relax.

'How does he feel about it all?' He holds the tablet out, low enough so she can see it without raising her head.

It takes too long for her to read that short, simple sentence. She works her jaw and takes deep breaths, swallowing after each one. Pressing her lips together, she shakes her head and lifts it, narrowing her eyes at him. "We were talking about you."

So this little jaunt is causing problems in her marriage. It probably doesn't help that, instead of going straight home, she's stuck on duty for a few extra days. Logan considers pushing, but he has no right to delve any deeper into her relationship with Sam. She wouldn't tell him anyway; it's so far beyond none of his business.

'I'm not sure if I'm as grown up as you are.'

Veronica's laughs reluctantly. "Oh, no. Most of the time I still feel like I have the emotional maturity of a sixteen-year-old." Her teasing tone becomes serious. "I'm just having a hard time right now; the Logan thing hasn't actually backed up on me for years. It got to where it hurt too much to hold on. Maybe you're not there yet."

She reaches out and squeezes his hand briefly, and Logan lifts the corners of his mouth in the best approximation of a smile he can manage.

Veronica lets him go and walks over to the stove. "What do you say we finish this dinner? I'm starving." She lifts the lid on the pot of boiling water and adds the carrots to steam. "Maybe another seven or eight minutes and we're in business."

When she returns to her place in front of him, she holds out her hands, a challenge in her face. "Wanna have a slap fight?"

If she can push this to the side, Logan can as well. But barely. With a smile that takes a little extra work, he lays his own hands flat, barely on top of hers, and waits for her to start the game.

* * *

The entire crew, with the exception of the three involved with keeping the ship plodding ahead, show up right at mealtime. It only takes a minute for Logan to load up his plate, but it's long enough for Veronica's table to fill. Logan takes a seat at the next table over, next to Trevor Petturi.

Veronica is flanked by Diego and, less tolerably to Logan, Chuck. Her dinner is a success, and Diego spends a half hour trying to recruit Veronica to replace Javier as cook. Even Javier is enjoying the dish so much he seconds the suggestion, his mouth a constant bulge as he eats.

Trevor Petturi gives Logan shy smiles, like he doesn't know how to act around someone who's different. 'Kill them with politeness' seems to be his strategy. He engages the other men at their table, asking lots of questions about their jobs and the shipping industry, willingly going with whatever tangent the conversation follows. There isn't a topic he's not interested in, and his responses are full of enthusiasm.

_No wonder this guy drives Veronica crazy. He would have made a great cheerleader in high school._

The food is great, but Logan tenses when he notices Chuck scooting a little closer to Veronica every couple of minutes. Just when he's ready to intervene, Veronica turns toward Chuck. Her grin is sticky-sweet.

"Chuck, sweetheart. Move your chair away and get your hand off my leg, or you'll be breathing through a straw the rest of your life."

Logan doesn't even bother to hide his smirk. _Don't doubt it, Chuck. She might be Barbie on the outside, but she's all Ripley on the inside._

Chuck swallows and scoots his chair back, grabs his plate and moves away from the table without a word. One look at Logan and Chuck moves toward the empty, third table, instead of the open chair next to Diego.

The entire room has grown silent, watching Chuck get his comeuppance. Veronica continues to eat, unconcerned with the reaction of those around her. It reminds Logan of when she would sit alone during lunchtime at Neptune High, daring anyone to mess with her. Even when he taunted her, he'd admired her strength.

It's Vincente who ends the silent standoff, with the kind of laughter that lets you know he's been holding it in. His chuckles and snorts set off a chain reaction, until everyone is cracking up, making Chuck redden in anger and embarrassment. He stands up and throws his plate aggressively in the bus tub, then stomps out of the room.

Logan and Diego exchange a look. Chuck will have to be watched closely, and his fate'll depend on how he handles himself the rest of the trip. Having this many people living in small quarters for so long, they can't afford to keep someone who holds onto petty resentments.

At the end of the meal, Logan notices how low the sun is. He's trying to think of a subtle way to invite Veronica to join him up deck when she suggests a game of poker to the group. In seconds she has enough takers and sets up the game.

She's under no obligation to make sure he's included. It was his choice to keep them friendly strangers, and Logan's routine locks him in. He hasn't missed a sunset in all the time he's been on this tub, and skipping it so he can stalk-watch her would be noticed. Gathering up his plate and cup, he dumps them and heads out.

The only person on the main deck is Trevor Petturi, and Logan watches as the man paces, talking into a bright yellow cell phone. The wind is blowing in the wrong direction and Petturi's too far away for Logan to hear more than an occasional word, but he doesn't care to listen. He's got too much going on in his own head.

It's different, being up here when the object of his memories is just a few levels away. His choice of memory is more deliberate, and fitting since tomorrow will replace another as their last day together.

_"You don't have any classes today, do you?" Veronica asks as she walks into his bedroom, wicking the last of the moisture from her skin before throwing the towel at him._

_Logan catches it, watching as she pulls on the same clothes she'd worn when she came to see him last night. He can't believe they're here again, starting over for the fourth…fifth? time. "No. But I could probably find my way onto campus if the motivation was right."_

_She waggles her eyebrows at him and uses her upper arms to squeeze her cleavage together, the slight padding in the bra she put on creating a tantalizing effect. "A quickie in the Rover? I have a break between 1 and 1:30."_

_He laughs, tempted to take her up on the offer, but knows it's a joke. Though he was thrilled to find out she's a wildcat when they're alone, she isn't about to get it on in a crowded parking lot. Instead he reaches out and grabs her wrist, pulling her down to lie on the bed beside him._

_Studying the lines of her face, he brushes the hair off her cheek and takes in the happiness that imbues her. Logan never thought she'd look at him that way again. "Forget it, Bobcat. Nothing's going to be quick about us. Get used to long walks on the beach, waltzes, and long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days."_

_Veronica grins slowly, until it reaches her widened eyes. "Oh, my."_

_"How about a date tonight, instead?" Logan places his palm against hers, leaning forward to give a gentle kiss to the bruise he made on her neck the night before. He wouldn't have done it intentionally, but doesn't mind the claim implied – it matches the scratches she left on his back._

_Their fingers twine together and he lifts his head to smile down at her. "The kind where we dress up. I hold open doors and pull out chairs, tip the waiter for a better table to impress you. Then," he kisses the tip of her nose, "bring you back here and show you how much of a gentleman I'm not."_

_She kisses him, swooping her tongue into his mouth and placing a leg over his hip so his sheet-clad erection presses against her in the right way. With a moan he grinds against her, letting go of her hand so he can reach for her bra clasp, only to be thwarted by her sitting up._

_"Hold that thought until tonight. I have a test in less than an hour and have to meet Wallace right before. First, I have to go home to change."_

_He groans and flops onto his back, putting his hands behind his head. "Throwing me over for another man? Tell Wallace you'll meet him later and stay ten more minutes."_

_Veronica pulls on her shirt and shoots him a wry grin before dropping to the floor to hunt for her shoes. "What happened to nothing being quick?"_

_"I said that when I still had enough blood in my brain for rational thought. Why are you meeting Wallace?"_

_She settles on the edge of the bed, pulling on her trainers and tying them. Her back is to him so he can't read her expression. "Wallace is playing middle man, exchanging Piz and my breakup boxes. Piz isn't real keen on doing it himself."_

_Logan doesn't want to dwell on the floppy haired twit that was gunning for Veronica from the second he met her. Kind words would not be said and, since Logan ended up the victor, he can afford to be magnanimous. But the breakup box thing he understands; Veronica has a habit of borrowing things without asking. Or returning them. "Speaking of which, you still have a CD or two of mine."_

_Veronica turns, squints one eye and cocks her head. "I'm pretty sure if you don't reclaim something within two weeks of the breakup, you no longer own it."_

_"Moot point since we're back together."_

_"Are we? I don't recall actually agreeing to that."_

_He jumps up and scoops her behind the knees, falling on his ass on the bed when she wriggles in his arms, laughing. "Did you mean what you said last night?"_

_Her tongue darts between her lips to moisten them. She rolls them together and takes a deep breath. Logan waits her out, familiar with her stalling tactics. It's such a fucking vulnerable feeling, waiting to see if she'll play like it didn't happen. When she speaks it's slow, and taunting. "I. Love. You. Logan. Jeez, are you always gonna be this needy?"_

_"Yes, get used to it. I don't want there to be any confusion about where we stand. I'm yours and you're mine and anybody who doesn't get that can go to hell, including you. We'll brand each other if that's what it takes to make it clear."_

_Logan waits as she swallows, her gaze never wavering from his, and nods. "So I'll see you tonight. I can be here by seven."_

_He walks her to the door and kisses her goodbye. The day seems incredibly long, stretched out before him. But, speaking of breakup boxes, he needs to pack up Dick's crap. Logan promised him the room between noon and five tomorrow to get his stuff and wants to make sure nothing's left behind._

_He picks up the phone and makes a 7:30 reservation at one of the local, upscale restaurants that'll inspire Veronica to wear a dress. He really wants to see her in a dress again. The last time was that red number she wore when they were fighting about her chasing the rapist, and Mr. Mars had practically kicked him out of the house, again. Despite how pissed Logan'd been at her, he noticed the outfit._

His reminiscing is interrupted by Trevor Petturi walking toward the front of the ship while talking on his phone. Logan doesn't hear much, just a few words carried on the wind, "Si,…No…problema. Gracias…si, Josef," but it's enough to distract him.

As Petturi's powering down the phone Vincente approaches him. Their conversation is brief and too low to be heard before they go back toward the mess. Probably another table is being organized for poker. Logan considers joining them, but his head is too full to focus on cards.

The distraction is appreciated, since it stops his thoughts from returning again to that last day in Neptune. He doesn't need to rehash every step that led to his decision to pack his car, and replaying their breakup twice in the same week is a bad idea. Now more than ever, he's convinced his leaving was the best choice for her sake.

At the time though, he'd questioned the decision repeatedly. He'd wandered the coasts of Europe, hotel hopping every day or two. Most of that next year-and-a-half is fuzzy; an alcoholic haze of surfing, partying, and getting in fights whenever it felt like if he didn't hit something he'd explode.

The scar by his eye and the chipped tooth happened in Espinho, the incident when his arm was cut open went down somewhere between Almeria and Malaga. He only remembers the towns because of the days he was shore bound, unable to surf due to his wounds. He has no idea when or where he broke his nose.

Greece was the end of his European jaunt, when he woke up in the hospital after spending almost a week unconscious. He had a broken jaw, a hangover, and withdrawal symptoms worthy of a Rat Packer. He'd also left a trail any two-bit hacker or PI could follow.

Logan was allowed to sign himself out of the hospital only after a mandatory meeting with a psychologist. The woman was a straight shooter. She told him if he wanted to kill himself, he should stop playing with the idea and do it. If he wanted to live, he'd have to do it sober.

For over two days he sat in a rented shithole and stared at a bottle of sleeping pills and a fifth of imported Jack. Logan was barely twenty, but he'd had to pick himself up so many times he felt ancient. He wanted a drink, craved the burning sensation the first shot would bring and the oblivion to come after half a bottle. But he was familiar with the way his emotions spiraled down when he was drunk. The pills would definitely follow. That bottle of Jack had the equivalent of skull and crossbones on it, and he pulled back every time he reached for it.

Figuring it was the method rather than the act he was having a problem with, he put on his coat and went out, seeking a high building with lax security. Cassidy and his mom both willingly plunged to their deaths; they could be his example. Cassidy especially; he'd stepped backward as if he were moving toward life rather than away from it. The psycho hadn't even made a sound on the way down.

Finding a ten story building, Logan made his way to the top and stood on the ledge. His foot hung in the air, pausing on that one, last step. For over an hour he hovered there until he took the step, but backwards, collapsing onto his ass firmly and safely on the roof.

He was surprised to find himself angry. Furious. He didn't want to die - not now and not in six months. Not from a failed liver, nor from a gunshot or a knife because he pissed off the wrong guy.

What he wanted was to catch a plane back to Neptune and set everything right side up. Spend the next sixty years making it up to Veronica for hurting her again.

His ire was short lived, though. He'd left for Veronica's sake as much as his own. Logan didn't want her getting nostalgic and looking him up, so he narrowed down his options. He couldn't live anonymously as Logan Echolls, and yet he wanted to live. At a small café he begged a few sheets of paper off the waiter, and made notes while inhaling three milkshakes.

It was time to find a new continent, a new name, and truly start fresh. He'd paid attention, listening when Veronica and her dad discussed cases, and had two decades of film and books to draw from.

It took him almost a month to pull it off. He started by creating a false trail, making day trips and using his credit cards so it would look like he was traveling the coasts of Greece. While in one of those towns he withdrew half of his remaining funds in cash.

After two weeks in Athens he found someone able to sell him a false identity with full backing. The seller culled the birth certificate of a child who was born and died in Ireland in his same birth year. They removed all traces of the child's death, including any obituaries or online references. Logan paid top dollar for a passport, driver's license, and PPS number. Hackers planted school records and job histories, falsified tax records, and uploaded backdated history into a couple of social networking sites – the kind you don't post pictures to.

Logan ended up with barely enough money to cover his credit card bills, pay a money guy to hide his other trust money when it came through, buy a plane ticket to Chile, and survive until he got a job. While being a millionaire playboy doesn't prepare you for much, Malachy Lynch's job history and fake letters of recommendation secured him a position as dockworker in Antofagasta.

The work was incredibly physical, and he chafed a bit at having to answer to somebody else, but the job was the best thing for him. He was in the first stages of alcohol recovery; structure and routine helped enormously.

Once he adjusted to the physical demands of the job he no longer spent his evenings exhausted, which made it harder to not think about drinking. Or not think about Veronica, which made him think about drinking. Logan bought himself a computer and found an online chat group for recovering alcoholics; he was still wary about getting involved with other, real people, even under his new name. The online group was always there. The members would shift, but it helped to talk to others dealing with similar crap.

Then one day, as he was clocking out, he noticed a 'crew member wanted' ad. The walls of his apartment had grown too close, and he loved the idea of being out at sea.

After he'd been on the ship a couple months, Logan looked for Diego to ask him a question. The man was staring at a sealed bottle of tequila as if it had him entranced. Logan recognized the look, and so began a two man AA group. They shared their stories, albeit an abbreviated, written one on Logan's part. He didn't give Diego his real name, or exactly why he'd changed it; the details weren't important. He had a friend, and work. Over time he built a life; bought a home when his money came through, and found Eva to share it.

Veronica coming back into his sphere brings out the old game of comparisons. He never felt like he measured up to her. She was driven, he was aimless. She was hardworking, he'd never held a job. Everything she had she'd earned, he lived off inherited money. She had friends, cohorts, and a father who loved her, he had Dick.

Thirteen years later and she's gigantic life steps ahead of where he is, at least professionally. She had to have worked her ass off to become an FBI agent, he's a blue collar worker. There's nothing wrong with that, except that he has the luxury of options and stayed with the first thing he fell into.

At some point this job stopped being his salvation. The tedium set in long ago, and another decade of dealing with men like Chuck will make him crazy. Now he can admit he's been thinking about leaving for a while. That he's resentful of the time away from home, away from Eva.

Eva. As long as he's playing comparisons, it's natural to equate their relationship to that of Veronica and Sam's. But that's a little unfair. Veronica fell in love with a man who wouldn't settle for half her heart; who wanted marriage and a family, but only if he was her first choice.

By contrast, Logan and Eva did it backwards - shared a home, then a life, and later fell in love. No definitive decisions were made; there was just a day that Logan was reading at the small table while she cooked, and looked up when he heard Eva yell. She was stomping her foot and running water over a burned finger, cursing. He stood behind her so he could survey the damage. With his arm around her waist, her back against him, he brought the finger up to his mouth to kiss it. As she relaxed into him, and gave a small smile, he knew. Knew that he loved her – had loved her for a long while by that point.

Yet, all these years Logan's held back giving himself completely over to it because he's been waiting for…something. Now he realizes it was to stop loving Veronica, stop missing her. But those feelings are too entrenched for that to ever happen. When he remembers their conversation in the kitchen, Veronica didn't say she'd stopped loving him. She'd simply said goodbye to the possibility of what they could have been. And it was enough.

Logan replays her description – locking away photos, lying in the bed they shared and talking to an empty room. Surprisingly, he's less hurt by it than he would have expected. Instead he feels…released.

Yet, her words bothered him. Now, with a sudden clarity, he realizes why: Eva putting her wedding ring in a box of photos and storing them at her mother's house. Coming home from the cemetery with her eyes red and wanting to be alone. That she hasn't mentioned Eduardo in a long time. A thousand other little things.

Veronica said that whether things worked out between herself and Sam, letting go of the life that _could_ have been was a necessary step in moving on. Could be that's why fate took her on this journey at this time. His death, albeit false, will give her that last element of closure. And maybe her presence can allow him to face something he's avoided for far too long.

_Wasn't it Seneca who said 'It's not because things are difficult that we dare not venture. It's because we dare not venture that they are difficult'?_

Logan glances up at the inky sky and realizes he didn't even notice the sun going down. Looking at his watch, he's startled to see he's been on his little platform above the world for over two hours.

_I'm sure Diego took her on the body check. Tomorrow is soon enough._

Back in his room, he digs out his own satellite phone from his duffel bag. At least once a week he calls Eva. It helps them stay connected, and releases tension built spending weeks completely mute. Tonight though, he calls because he genuinely needs to talk. It takes five rings for her to pick up, and he's about to pull out his hair by the roots when she answers with her deep, throaty voice.

"Malachy?"

"Hey, sweetheart."

"I talk to you only two days ago. You miss me that much, eh?"

Her sexy, teasing lilt causes his eyes to sting. His voice is shaky, and it's an effort to talk. "Yeah. Yeah Eva, I really do."

The teasing is gone, replaced with concern. "What is wrong?"

Logan knows his shuddery sigh can be heard by her, but that's okay. It's why he called. "You won't believe me."

She doesn't say anything for a long moment, but he can hear rustling in the background. "Okay. Now I be sitting. All yours. Speak."

"I honestly don't know where to start."

"Just go. I figure out the beginning."

Eva already knows the early pages of this story, so he starts with finding Veronica on the deck that first night. Adds in the case that brought her on board, and the false trail that led her to South America in the first place.

"I no understand. She look at you. She see you. How do she not recognize you? She is stupid?"

Logan chuckles, as much from tension relief as the idea that anyone would call Veronica Mars stupid. "No, she commented on the resemblance. Context has something to do with it. This is the last place she'd expect to find me. Then there's that whole thing of me being dead."

"What do you look like before?"

He can't believe she doesn't know this. If Eva had given him a story about movie star parents and murder charges, he would have been all over the internet looking it up. But, then again, he'd asked her not to; he just never expected her to mean it when she agreed. "Go to your computer and type in my real name."

More rustling. "I remember Logan, but what is last name? How you spell?"

"E-C-H-O-L-L-S." Logan can hear the clickety-clack of the keyboard and her sigh as she scrolls around.

"Ok, she not so stupid, except to think you cute then. You smile is like Joker in Batman."

Logan would figure she was trying to make him laugh, except she's not one to kid around. Which makes it even funnier. He leans against the door and lets the hilarity overtake him, pulling in a large breath when it fades. "Damn, I needed that."

"She is short, your Veronica? Blond? Pretty?"

Of course Eva would see Veronica while she was already digging around. There were plenty of pictures of the two of them in the tabloids and news - from the stories about Lilly, through Aaron's trial, and his own charges for murder. "Yeah. She hasn't changed much."

Logan paces the small room, giving Eva time to finish whatever she's looking at. But the minutes snail by and he doesn't hear anything. "Eva, are you still there?"

"Yes, I thinking."

"About what?"

"How I feel if I be her. If you hide from me, even when you stand in front of me." Her tone has an edge that tells him to be wary.

Logan scratches the back of his head, always a little itchy after removing the cap he wears all day. "How would you feel?"

"Pissed off. Malachy, she is brought there for reason. Coincidence be bullshit."

"What reason?"

Eva's exasperated huff comes clear through the phone, and the soft thump tells him she slapped the table, like she usually does when he's an idiot. "I not know. You need tell her who you is."

"She's a federal agent, and I'm living under a false identity. I've been hiding for thirteen years, lying to her for two days, and she's armed. Do you really think outing myself is good idea?" The sarcasm helps him, even if Eva ignores it.

"Armed?"

"She has a gun."

"Oh. Well. She maybe shoot you, but too bad. You no tell her you are Logan, I shoot you myself." Her casual tone makes him wonder if she's finally decided to joke, or if he shouldn't get off the boat in Antogofasta.

"Seriously, Eva, why would I tell her? What good could come of it?" His voice has risen a bit, making him thankful the room was originally designed to store explosives. The walls are a secluding three inches thick.

Outing himself will rob Veronica of her closure, and two days of lying to her won't make the truth go down any easier. If this were a good idea, he would've done it the first day.

"Malachy, think. When we need each other, we find each other. That not be coincidence. Maybe she need you now."

 _When has Veronica ever needed me?_ The old, bitter thought rises to the surface, only to be pulled down by the five years she took to move on from him.

"I can't imagine what I could offer her after all this time." Logan squats on the floor, resting an elbow on one knee and palming his forehead with his hand. "But fuck, I don't know anything anymore. This whole deal is so convoluted."

"No. Is simple. You make all decisions before. This time you tell her you be alive, and you let Veronica make her own decisions."

 _Is that how Eva saw it?_ Veronica had said something similar, up on deck the night before; that he decided to leave Neptune, and her, on his own.

Logan pulls in a deep breath, his love for this hardheaded, pragmatic woman making him feel almost hollow inside, since she's so far away. "She has friends, a husband, and a family. What could she possibly need from me?"

"After two days do you know her life? You only know answer if you ask question. Now stop being scared little boy and go talk at her."

As the relief seeps into his spine, Logan realizes that, on some level, he'd know what Eva would say. He had just needed her to say it. Say there was another reason that, of all the ships in all the oceans in all the world, Veronica had to walk onto his. A reason that had little to do with him, and everything to do with her.

"You're right. You're right about my telling her and you're right about me needing you."

"So? All this is not new." This time it's her lack of coyness that coaxes a smile out of him, but it falls when her voice turns pleading, an anomaly for her. "Malachy, when you are coming home?"

"A week, tops. We aren't staying over in L.A." The following silence fills with everything Logan can't talk to her about yet: the realization that she's moved on from Eduardo, his thoughts about quitting his job, and what Veronica said about letting him go. His own thoughts on doing the same. Any one of those topics will lead to a discussion of his and Eva's future together – something best done in person and when he's had more time to think.

It's hard to say what the silence on Eva's end of the phone means. He waits her out, and hates the hesitation her voice when she does speak. It doesn't match the confident, self-assured woman he knows. "What are you to say to her?"

Logan considers his answer, not having thought this far ahead. "That I did what I thought was right at the time. That I'm sorry I hurt her. That I'm glad she's happy now." He presses his palm to the center of his forehead, and attempts to rub the bit of pressure building there. "Eva—"

"Don't." The earlier bravado is back as she cuts off the apology and reassurance he was about to give her. "If shoe is wearing other foot you not want me to feel bad. You call me when she leaves the ship. We talk then."

So instead it's Eva reassuring him, saying it's okay he gets this opportunity. Logan searches for anything he can say to make it better, but comes up with nothing.

"I love you."

Her quick breath is impatient. Logan's definitely the more sentimental of their two, and she's given him a task to do. Plus, Eva likes to do her heaviest thinking alone. "Yes, Malachy, te amo. You call me after L.A. Now, go talk at her."

Logan hangs up the phone and remains in his squat, tilting his head back until it hits the door. It sends a vibration through his body that he finds oddly soothing. He repeats it a few more times, until his skull feels slightly bruised.

Talk to Veronica. Watch as his betrayal these past two days fills her eyes. Prepare for how much vitriol she'll spew, if she speaks to him at all. Eva wants him to do this now, but it's late and tomorrow is soon enough.

He'll tell Veronica when he takes her down for her body check. At least in the freezer they'll be alone, far from the eyes and the ears of the rest of the crew.

Logan settles into bed but is too restless to sleep. The talk with Eva and the one he's to have with Veronica are running so quickly through his head, they clash and morph. He'll be a wreck in the morning; not the best way to face the most difficult conversation of his adult life.

He switches on the light and grabs the book Veronica returned to him; maybe the twisted humor will keep his mood from slipping into morose. Flipping through the pages, the index card she was using as a bookmark falls on his chest and he picks it up. The texture of the paper is wrong; it's not a card, it's a photograph.

On the back is written _Sam, Veronica and Gai_ with a date over two years prior. An avid curiosity goes through him, but he hesitates before turning the photo over.

_Do I really want to look at the guy? Of the life she created once I left?_

_Who are you kidding, Logan? No way are you not peeking._

_I know, but I had to be all dramatic before I did it. Hollywood child, remember?_

He turns it over slowly, concentrating first on Veronica's smile before taking in the rest of the picture. She and a man are side-by-side, a child in front of them. The homemade banner behind their heads reads _Happy 10th Gai!_

_Ten? I thought she said the kid was seven? Seven, going on forty going on…twelve._

The child is skinny and pale, with a beaver-toothed grin. His brown hair is a little long and shaggy, and his dark brown eyes stare at the photographer. The man over his shoulder looks to be in his thirties, handsome with light brown skin, black hair and startling blue eyes. They're several shades lighter than Veronica's.

_Two blue-eyed parents with a brown-eyed son. That's next to impossible._

Logan turns the photo over and rereads the date on the back.

 _January 26, 2018._ _Which means Gai was born January 26, 2008. We spent that one night together in May of 2007. Veronica said she and Piz hadn't had sex. She said it again that night in my hotel room, after I admitted I hadn't slept with Parker, either. Which could mean…_

The photograph wavers in front of him, whether due to his shaking hand or the moisture that distorts his vision, he's not sure.

_Are you kidding me? Is this for real?_

Another look at the photo and he knows it's true. And that his leaving was worse than he ever thought.

_The kid is mine. That night we spent together, she got pregnant. I took off and left her to deal with all of it alone. Putting herself through college and the FBI academy while raising a son. Our son, on her own._

Logan's eyes travel back to Sam, sitting with one arm behind Veronica's back, clutching her bicep. His other arm is in front of him, wrapped around the waist of the boy.

_Not entirely alone. She found someone to take my place, to be a dad to the kid. All the talks we've had, how did I miss this? Wait…she said Gai was five when he saw his grandmother's record player for the first time. How would that happen…unless the first time he was at Sam's mother's house was when he was five._

Logan looks closer at the child, recognizing the straight nose, full cheeks and tall, squarish forehead from his own childhood photos. The mouth isn't his or Veronica's, and he's not sure which side of their families to attribute it to. It's not a father's hubris to say the boy is good looking; he has classic features that will grow into handsomeness as he gets older. But, regardless of how he looks, it pains Logan that he didn't see these features develop from the generic sameness of infanthood.

With that sense of loss comes an insatiable curiosity, a need to catch up. He wants to know about every childhood illness, scrape and bruise. Every loss and triumph, to see each video and picture.

Two days. For two days Veronica could have been telling him about their son.

The berth is too small, and hot. It can't contain all the emotions that ricochet around Logan's chest. Emotions he can't even place a name to yet. Reverently placing the picture back in the book, he throws on a pair of shorts and a ratty t-shirt, grabs his pillow and heads out to lie on the deck. The book comes with him, though. He's not going to let go of Gai in even this small way.

Logan stops at Veronica's door, wanting to pound on it and get this all in the open. But it's late and he doesn't have enough of a handle on his feelings yet. This conversation just got a lot harder, and his falling apart won't help anything. Better to wait until the morning, when they have the privacy of the freezer.

It's a warm, pleasant night, if humid. Even out at sea like this, the nights can get sticky when they're this close to the equator. Behind a cloud, the moon doesn't do much to light the way as he heads to his favorite spot - a wedge of space between the side of the boat and a storage container, at the stern of the ship. There are shadows enough for privacy from the crew, but room to stretch out. Throwing down his pillow, he lies down and extends his legs out in front of him.

Logan stares up at the sky, unseeing. All he can think about are the photograph, and the video she showed him. The two things keep looping in his head, and no way in hell is he going to be able to sleep tonight. There's also too many ways to replay the events of all those years ago, and he knows he won't get to rest until he exhausts each one. Every possibility and missed opportunity that would've afforded him the right to be a father to _his son_. His son. His _son_.

* * *

Logan wakes when a soft, bony thing falls on top of him with a small _oof_. Trapped under a slight weight, and still half-asleep, he reaches up, his fingers working into a handful of long, silky hair.

"Watch…where…you…fuck!" She pushes off of him, her hands getting a fistful of his beard before she rolls to the side, curls up and clutches her stomach as she laughs, low.

_I've been known to, when the angle's right._

"Malachy, is that you?" Her exaggerated whisper is the only sound on the quiet deck, other than the light _slap slap_ of the waves hitting the boat. It's her calling him Malachy that pulls him out of his dream state, reminding him of their present circumstances.

Logan fumbles around until he finds her hand and draws an 'M' in it. He can't speak freely to her on this deck; anyone outside could overhear him talk, or when she justifiably loses it on him. She'd hate this drama being played out in front of others.

Her laughter fades and she lets out a huge sigh, but keeps her voice low, conspiratorial. "It was too hot to be inside, and you never get a sky like this in San Diego. Check it out. It's amazing."

Veronica's right; the sky is lit up with stars, the lack of light pollution and smog making every one of them visible. A couple of hours ago it would have been sweet torture to lie beside her in the dark and not touch her. Now he just wants to be in a well-lit room and demand a detailed account of her last thirteen years. Everything from the moment she found out she was pregnant until she got on this ship.

_I hate that I missed out on everything. I'd have hugged you and told you it was all going to be okay. I would have made you laugh at your body changing and enjoyed every kick. I would've held your hand and helped you pick a name when you couldn't decide. Taken care of him when you were in class and made sure you didn't have to work, too. I would have married you, if you said yes, for a hell of a lot more reasons than the baby._

"Shh! You're thinking too loud." Her giggle is uncharacteristic, and Logan wonders about it. Even when she was all about sweater sets and pastels she wasn't a giggler.

Logan exhales and uses his fingertips to massage his temples. He has the beginnings of a headache and this is making it worse, the residual effect of holding in his thoughts and feelings. He wasn't made to emote silently. Sitting up, he puts his back against the storage container, his legs stretched out in front of him.

He's about to stand up, take her hand and try to lead her below deck when the question about the giggling is answered. The fumes from a container of sour mash is passed under his nose as she settles down beside him. "I have contraband. Interested?"

_Veronica is drinking, and giggling. This is not your typical behavior in the Mars 'I control everything' 'verse. Didn't she say earlier she's learned not to drink?_

The smell of whiskey is inviting, and he pushes the flask away. It'd be so easy to drain the damn thing and shut off his brain for a few hours.

Her speech is low and drawn out, though she's not gone enough to slur. "God, this week. All I've done is think and cry and not sleep and think again. And don't forget feeling up the corpses of dead agents. That might be the highlight."

_This conversation will definitely wait until the morning, since she's not sober. We can mark off 'The three signs of Veronica buzzed', as Lilly dubbed them. We have giggling, check. Slow, whispered speech, check. And finally, rambling, check. Wait. Dead what?_

"All I can think about is Logan, and then I feel guilty for thinking about Logan, instead of Sam. I mean, who deserves my thoughts more? I'm a frigging mess but I can't help it and I have to get it together before I go home." She reaches over and grabs his hand, pulling it into her lap and playing with his fingers like a small child might.

He should leave. Get up and go to his berth if he's not going to talk to her tonight. But the least he can do is not leave her alone when she's already so down.

"Nobody even mentions Logan. It's like this unwritten rule. I'm pretty sure everyone I know got together and made a pact. But ever since I came down here I've been missing him. I miss him so goddamn much."

_I'm right here. I'm right fucking here. I've missed you too._

Now she's bookended his hand with her own, walking her fingers up and down each side in synchronicity. She gives a soft laugh and he turns his head to look at her, studying the bit of profile he can see outlined in the dark. "Do people often treat you as their priest, or am I the only one? Seriously, put a hand over my mouth if you want me to shut up."

_No. It's my turn to listen to your drunk ramblings._

Her sniffle is out of place given the warm, humid weather, and he catches the movement when she tilts her cheeks to her shoulders to swipe at them.

Logan nudges her when she's quiet for a while, to make sure she's still awake. She nudges back, then lays her head on his shoulder and clasps his hand in her lap with deep sigh.

"You, my friend, have the unfortunate luck of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I'm grieving like I'm his widow. This might be easier for both of us if you stop being so nice to me."

He can hear the liquid in the flask slosh around as she takes another drink. "I'm a mess. That's what happens when you only get your drink on once every decade. A few sips and you end up cuddling on a boat deck with a stranger because he's not only nice, but also has the same eyes as the guy you're trying to forget, and you spill your guts to him."

There's a _thunk_ when she drops the flask to the deck. She shifts, her head turned so their faces are only a few inches apart.

Logan knows it's stupid. He feels his hand rising in the air and part of his brain is telling him to stop, that he's about to make a huge mistake.

But he does it anyway. He takes his hand and uses it to brush back the hair that's fallen across her forehead, running it over her ear. It's not the gesture of a sympathetic stranger, or even a friend. It's the touch of a lover and he's daring her to recognize it. The move is cowardly and he immediately regrets it, pulling his hand away from her.

The response he expects is hesitation, confusion, or even anger. What he gets is her turning her body his way and throwing a leg over his lap. Her hand clenches in his hair as she pulls him in for an unexpectedly deep kiss.

As per their long-ago established pattern, he lowers his hands to lift her thighs and reposition her. However, when she moans into his mouth, he feels not only impassioned, but nauseated.

Veronica is small and light, the opposite of the woman who's occupied this space for nine years. Her scent is of vanilla and cinnamon, rather than ocean air, sunshine, and a hint of turpentine. Her tongue is coated with whisky and tears, instead of the cayenne and chocolate of Eva's evening kisses.

Logan breaks off the kiss, resting his forehead against hers while trying to catch his breath. Veronica's sob crawls out of her throat, and into his heart. She jumps up and takes off at a run.


	6. You Know Me

Logan breaks off the kiss, resting his forehead against hers while trying to catch his breath. Veronica's sob crawls out of her throat, and into his heart. She jumps up and takes off at a run.

The sound of Veronica's bare feet slapping on the deck fades away. He draws up his legs and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his forehead on his palms. Logan can still taste her on his lips but he makes no attempt to wipe them, considering it penance for his arousal. He's grateful for that sound she made at the end, turning a thousand stray fantasies into something very real, and very wrong.

_Fuck. Fuck, fuck, FUCK!_

As his blood flow regulates, the anger builds, starting a roiling flip in his stomach and spreading until even his fingers twitch with it. He curls them into his hair and gives a hard pull.

_I did this. I goddamn did this!_

_This_ is an accumulation of fuckups that's all on him: Being too much of a chickenshit to say anything when his death was obviously tearing her up. His son growing up without knowing his father. Veronica having to do so much alone, before she met Sam. That kiss making them both cheaters. And Eva. Eva waiting for him to take his turn at letting go.

Pulling his feet under him, Logan stands. He leans down and grabs the book, not wanting to leave its precious cargo outside unattended. The first step he takes meets with something lying on the deck, and he follows the skittering noise to the flask Veronica left behind.

It feels familiar in his hand, the heft and shape reminiscent of so many nights he thought this was the solution to his problems. Logan waits for the desire to drink the damn thing dry and forget all of this for a while, but it doesn't come – not this time, at least. There's no room for his self-indulgent crap right now. Instead of opening the container he tucks it in his pocket to return to her later.

Hesitating at the bottom steps, it takes only a second to decide his course. Finding Veronica and telling her the truth so they can figure things out is priority one. But when he sees Vincente coming down, he changes his mind. The guy is their night-shift navigator, which means he spends his evenings bouncing between the helm, bow watch relief, and the engine room. If he's heading to check on the engines, it means Diego's alone for the moment.

There's some promises Logan needs to make to Veronica concerning his availability to her and Gai, and wants to make sure he's clear to make them.

The melodious sounds of some Latina woman singing about a broken heart meet him at the door. Diego is sitting back, one hand on the wheel and humming along. He turns when the latch snicks into place.

"Hey, Vato. You're about seven hours early for your shift. Can't sleep?"

Logan shakes his head, settles back against the counter, crosses his arms and tucks the book under his elbow.

"Vincente's coming back in an hour with a deck and the cribbage board. We could invite that pretty fed lady to join us." Diego chuckles when Logan raises his eyebrows. "I'm like God up here. I see everything."

Logan flips Diego off, gives a heavy sigh and tips his head back against the cupboard behind him.

_Shit. I should have thought of that. Who's on bow watch now?_

With relief, he remembers it's Winston; not someone who will spread rumors or make speculations.

"Relax bro, I looked back for a second and saw her when she walked under the light. Seemed like she was going where you hang out at night. Surprised me- it don't seem your style. I thought you were a one-woman guy."

_I am. I was. Fuck._

Logan picks up a pad of paper, and Diego hands him a pencil. The tip hovers over the tablet for more than a minute before he lays it down without putting the two together.

Diego glances at the blank paper. "What? You got nothing to say?"

Logan takes a deep breath to prepare himself. He doesn't want to leave his friend with this large lie still between them, and he's sick to _fucking death_ of not talking. "Depends if you're willing to hear it."

"It's about time." Diego exhales and shakes his head. "I thought you'd play the quiet game forever."

Laughter bubbles up from Logan's stomach and he punches Diego in the arm. "You bastard! How long have you known?"

Diego laughs back and rolls his shoulders. "You slept on the boat one night, eight years ago, when it was docked for repairs. Eva came looking for you, and I don't think either one of you knew I was here. You left the door open, and you're not so quiet when you fight, or when you fuck."

When he was in high school Logan had never worried about being overheard, but since then sex had become something more. He can feel the heat creep us his neck; they'd thought they were alone that night. "What'd you do, sit outside and listen, man?"

"You act mute and you're judging me?" Diego's derision is well deserved. He eyes Logan and shakes his head before turning back to look out at the water. "From what I heard, you got no reason to blush. Eva - she's not so quiet either."

Logan lets out a breath that has an underlayment of laughter. "Well, that's not awkward. Why didn't you say anything?"

"As you do your job, what do I care?" Diego shrugs. "So, what'd you want to say?"

"Two things. One, I've been meaning to tell you for years you sound just like Cheech."

"And you look like fucking Chong. What's the second?"

"I'm quitting, once we get back." When Diego rolls his head to look him, Logan can't tell if he's surprised, pissed, or even heard him right. "I need to make some changes."

Diego runs his fingers through his hair and lets out a deep breath. "Is this about the blond lady?"

Logan shakes his head. "Not exactly. Veronica—"

"Veronica, eh?" Diego's eyebrows meet his hairline; his forehead is lined like the sand after the tide has gone out. "I thought you were just feeling guilty about the flirting."

_Ah, crap._ "It's not what you think – more like she gave me a needed reality check. I'm just," Logan crosses his hands in front himself, "done."

"Yeah, okay." Fortunately Diego doesn't pry; he never has. "I thought you were a lifer, like me. What are you gonna do for money?"

Logan shrugs; this is something Diego doesn't need to know. "I'll manage. Some things are more important."

"Tell me that when you have six kids," Diego chuckles.

The thought causes a pain to Logan's gut. His fingers ache from how tightly he's been gripping the book since he picked it up from the deck.

_Six kids you've gotten to watch grow up. I'd give every dime I have in trade for that._

"Now get some sleep 'cause I'm expecting you in here at eight. Don't fuck up and make me fire your hairy mug early."

"Aye, aye, Captain." Logan clicks his heels and gives a deep, stiff-backed bow. Once he straightens his back feels slightly looser, and his shoulders drop in relief.

_This must be how a soldier feels, getting his discharge papers._

Just as he turns to leave Diego says, "Oh hey, that includes remembering to lock the freezer next time you take your girlfriend down there. I had to pretend to use the key so our asses don't end up in a sling."

Logan tries to remember anything about that morning with Veronica, when she did her body check. The things that stand out are her talking about her husband, and the look of that dead girl's face. There was also that fun little walk down memory lane when Veronica touched his back. Yeah, he probably forgot to lock the freezer.

The old man's weathered face is haggard; the wrinkles stand out even more than usual and there are some serious bags under his dark brown eyes. "Diego, you okay, man? 'Cause you look like crap."

Diego makes a brushing away gesture, studying the sea in front of them. "I'll be okay once we get rid of this cargo. And, Monk?" He tilts his head back to look at Logan. "Keep your trap shut until we leave L.A., okay? These guys gossip like little girls and I don't want it to get out about you, yet."

Logan hadn't thought about keeping up the ruse, now that Diego knew and Veronica was about to. "Why would it matter?"

Diego's expression is grave. "Yeah, um, here's the deal. You know our other boats spend as much time in repairs as on the water. This company's going under – we got a year, tops."

A few rumors of this sort were always floating around, but Logan never took them seriously. "That sucks man, but what does that have to do with me?"

"A lot of us need that year. We only passed the last two inspections because of bribes. So keep up the quiet, eh? You do anything to make the American feds crawl up our asses, it won't go so good."

"Anything like suddenly recovering the use of speech, and missing an Irish brogue?"

Diego's nod gives Logan a sinking feeling. He and Veronica have bigger issues, and she isn't the type to make a fleet pay for his boneheadedness. Not intentionally, anyway. Petturi, is an unknown entity.

He's saved from agreeing by the walkie-talkie. It's Winston, warning Diego there's another boat ahead of them they'll have to veer around.

Diego turns his back to make the proper corrections and Logan slinks out the door. He heads down the stairs, fetching his pillow from the deck.

His finger fingers over the flask in his pocket, stopping to take a closer look when he passes under a light. It's an old thing, tarnished and scarred. The worn leather is a faded brown, the same color as the one he used to own.

He turns it upside-down and sees the familiar inscription, 'Bottoms up, Lover' _._ Lilly. She'd given him the flask for his fifteenth birthday, and very physically explained the words were so he'd think of her every time he used it.

_This didn't go into that garbage can in Greece. I gave it away before that._

The walk to Veronica's room he's in a haze of confusion. Not helped when he sees his door is slightly open, a fragment of light shining through the crack.

Logan pushes open the door and warily takes a couple of steps into his room, his eyes drawn to the bare walls. All of Eva's paintings are torn down. They're lying on the floor among his clothes and books, and the little items he uses for bookmarks; scraps of paper, receipts and the like. He hates dog-eared pages and uses whatever's at hand.

This isn't the systematic search of a trained agent; it's manic and unorganized.

_She knows. That's why she ran - not because she was freaked about cheating on her husband._

Bending over to pick up the picture of the cottage, Logan sees it's torn almost in half. The heavy, fibrous paper is soft and shredded at the edges - it had taken considerable effort to do that. No amount of tape or glue can restore it, and Eva's skill has evolved so she'll never be able to replicate it exactly.

These pictures have been his only connection to home during long weeks at sea. They were also the first gift Eva ever gave him, and seeing them destroyed brings a large lump to his throat.

Worse, though, is knowing Veronica had to come to the right conclusion on her own. The thought of her in this room, tearing apart his few possessions to look for clues, is appalling.

_I should've run after her. I should've told her myself, anytime over the past two days._

His every interaction with Veronica, since they were sixteen years old, is tinged with should've.

Hearing a sniff behind him, Logan turns to see Veronica crawl from where was curled up behind his door. Amid the mess, she's using a large card to push all the pieces of flotsam into a pile. The card is tipped at an angle, like you do with a dustpan, and her other hand scoops around the pile of scraps. Her lip quivers as she works, avoiding eye contact. "Malachy, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

She interrupts her clearning to use the back of her hand to swipe at her face, and meets his eyes for a bare second. "I… I don't have any better reason to give you than I'm crazy. It's… the way you are, how you kissed me, I got it in my head you were Logan. I came to South America looking for him, and even a corpse wasn't enough to make me stop."

_Shit. I never thought I'd see the day when she stopped trusting herself. Is there anything I'm not going to make worse?_

Her hands slow as she turns the card for a better angle. It's the postcard she'd noticed before, with the picture of the nesting dolls. The one she said reminded her of secrets. Only this time she's looking at the opposite side, the one with an Athens hospital address and room number. And a Neptune, California postmark.

It takes six seconds, but each lasts an eternity. Three while she frowns as her finger traces the stamp, while Logan carefully places Eva's torn painting on the bed. Two as she stares up from the card and focuses on a point in the distance, adding up the pieces; he steps back and closes the door so no one will hear when she breaks. A final one for her face to morph into an angry, pained glare as she jumps up and flies at him, pounding her fists on his chest.

"Bastard! You fucking bastard! Was this funny to you? Some kind of game to mess with me? Why would you do that?"

"Veronica." The sound of her name stops her. She looks up at him, tears dried from the heat of fury, her eyes searching his for some kind of answer.

"It wasn't a game. I didn't mean to hurt you. Let me explain." Yes, he's pleading. So many times he's imagined getting the opportunity to tell this to her and now he's afraid she won't give him the chance.

She lets out a deep sob, resting her hands against his chest for a second before using them to push away from him. He can see the rage pulse through her; her jaw tightens and her breaths come in gasps. "Explain? No. You're a ghost. You're dead. Dead people don't get to explain anything."

"I know it was lousy to let you think that."

She shakes her head and crosses her arms, holding herself together in that way she has. "No, I _know_ that. I saw the pictures of your body. You're a goddamn ghost! You've been dead for ten years and still can't fucking leave me alone."

Logan takes a deep breath, trying to figure out which end of this mess to focus on first. Taking tentative, small steps, he approaches her as you would a wild animal. The room isn't large enough so it doesn't take many to reach her. "Veronica, can we talk about this?"

Her eyes scan his face, running over all his features, and pauses at his forehead. This is the first time she's seen him without a hat; her brows draw together and her eyes lose focus. Logan can see the way her mind tries to cut through the emotion and reorder all the information so it makes some kind of sense.

Then her anger returns, her voice sharp-edged and shaky. "The two days you've spent fucking with me said enough. There's nothing to talk about."

"Not even Gai?"

As soon as he says it she grows pale and points a hand herself, at her stomach. "What the hell does _my son_ have to do with this?"

"Because he's my son, too." His voice is thick, afraid she'll deny it despite all the evidence. He hadn't known until this moment that he had doubts, or how much he wants to be right about this.

"Yours?" She shakes her head and presses her lips together. "How _dare_ you? Sam _earned_ the right to say that. All you did was fuck and run!"

_She's not denying it. He's mine; we made a child that night._

"Don't do that, Veronica. Don't twist what happened between us and make it something crude. I didn't know you were pregnant when I left. How could I?"

She tilts her head to the side. Something in the way she smiles so bitter, green at the edges, tells him this just got worse. "Wow. Now it all makes sense. No wonder you dropped off the face of the earth when Gai was a baby, and haven't said anything since I got here. Easier than lawyers and paternity tests. Just how the hell did you find out? Dick?"

Logan shakes his head, stepping back to reestablish the distance between them and takes the photo out of the book, handing it to her. "I only found out about Gai tonight, once I saw that. Veronica, _you know me_. Do you think I did all of this to get out of child support?"

She grabs the photo and tucks it into her back pocket. His eyes follow and it takes everything he has not to ask for it back.

Her quaking anger becomes a hard shell of furious control. "No. I don't know you, Logan. Malachy. Monk. Just like I don't know why you lied the past two days. And why you worked so damned hard at disappearing."

"I - "

"Just how many names does it take to make sure two private investigators, one turned FBI agent, can't find you, huh? I even hired a forensic accountant to follow your money, but he came to a dead end."

Logan looks down and traces a line on the floor with the toe of his shoe. His voice is quiet, reminiscent of when he was a small child and had to admit to a wrongdoing. "I figured that was a possibility, so I hired a better one to make sure that happened." His eyes lift to meet hers. "But Veronica —"

"Oh. Well done, then. It was just your bad luck I ended up on this damn ship and ruined all your carefully laid plans. But you know what?" She raises her hands and pushes against his chest again, hard, making him back up a step. "This makes things easier. I'll just tell Gai the official story. His sperm donor is dead, and he's better off."

She moves toward the door and Logan steps in front of it to block her way. It's a ship; her dramatic exit will only take her so far; things'll be easier if they can get through this right now.

" _Malachy_ , move out of my way."

"No. I have some things to tell you; things that might make a difference."

She narrows her eyes at him, and shakes her head. Her jaw trembles, a definitive sign she's not as in control as she appears. "Just stop. There's nothing you can say to make this better."

"Veronica, you have to know I loved you. I wouldn't have left if I thought staying was the better thing to do."

Her authentic surfer accent and 'hang loose' hands are mocking and nasty. "But there was this great rager going down in Spain and you just had to go. It was a tough choice; I totally get it, dude."

"No! It wasn't like that; I was drinking to forget you. It didn't work though; the drunker I got the more I thought about how much I loved you."

Veronica crosses her arms and rocks on the balls of her feet. It's as if she can't stand still in the confined space and doesn't have another choice for movement. "Then I guess it was me that didn't love you enough, right? _In the long run_ we didn't stand a chance together. Because what you _wanted to do with your life_ was get drunk and laid, then play pirate."

The familiar words make him wince with the bitterness they're thrown back at him. She scoffs, "Yeah, I remember your little breakup speech. I got to replay it in my head _every day_ I was pregnant, then dealing with being a single parent, knowing you were partying it up half a world away."

Her words take a moment to make sense, but once they do he lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head. "You knew where I was. Even then."

"Of course I knew." Her eyes rove slowly from his toes to his brows with contempt. "My dad caught up with you in Spain. He was going to give you some kind of 'man-up' speech, but once he saw how you were living, he figured we were better off."

"You were, but not for the reasons you think."

"Oh? I was raised by a drunk stuck in the wrong marriage. Not repeating that experience for Gai was reason enough for me." There's the slightest break in her during the second their eyes meet, and she blinks rapidly as she looks behind him. At the door.

"Veronica, I wanted –" Logan doesn't know if words are enough to convey everything he felt for her, but he wants to try. She cuts him off again.

"No." She pushes against his arms; her weak attempts lack any force this time. "You got what you wanted. It's done. Now move —, " her voice cracks as the tears fall, "– move out of my way."

If she were merely angry, he'd make her stay. But only once has he ever seen her this broken, on a rooftop years ago, and he can't bear the thought of forcing this on her. Not when she sees him as the villain this time.

One step to the right and she passes him, turning her body far to the side so they don't touch. Her exit is followed by the slam of his door, though it's a soft _whoof_ of sound.

If Veronica's anything like she used to be, she needs time. Whenever anything happened between them she preferred to stomp off and be by herself until she worked through it. He can give her a little of that.

* * *

Logan waits outside for two hours to see if she'll come back, then searches the ship for her. Whatever hiding spot she found, it's a good one.

Finally giving up, he goes into his room and tries to sleep. The best he manages is a couple of ten minute stretches, and by morning he's running on stomach acid and stress. At least the ulcer he develops will be a fitting souvenir of their time together.

It's just before seven a.m. when Logan ventures to her door and knocks tentatively, not even sure if she's in there. His hope is that she snuck back while he was dozing in his room.

"Who is it?" He can barely hear her through the steel door and is trapped, unable to call out an answer with Petturi next door. When he knocks again, she repeats the same question, louder this time.

Again he can only knock, and Veronica leaving the door closed is his answer. She's still not speaking to him, and won't allow him the privacy he needs to talk to her. Diego's request to keep up his mute act has him stuck.

He tries the door handle and finds it locked. The keys are in his pocket, but before he can use them, the door to his right opens, and Trevor Petturi backs out of his room. Logan steps away from Veronica's door to lean on the railing before Petturi turns to see him, so it's not evident he was hounding Veronica's door.

"Morning, Monk. Gorgeous day already, isn't it?"

_No, actually. Today sucks, thanks for asking._

Logan nods and turns when Veronica's door opens. Though she minor shadows under her eyes, there's no sign she spent the evening crying. She sports a causal look, dressed in wrinkled gray trousers and a sapphire blue, cotton button-up shirt that sets off her eyes. Eyes which refuse to look directly at him.

Her curt nod and "Monk," stings. She's still angry, driving the point when she turns to Petturi and flashes him a large smile.

_Monk. Which means you don't want Petturi to know about this, either._

"Hey there, Trevor. How'd you sleep?"

Petturi misses any significance in the byplay, and returns the smile. "Great. I never realized how soothing it is to sleep on a boat. I may never leave it."

Veronica laughs, and you'd have to know her as well as Logan does - did - to recognize it's not genuine. She isn't one to guffaw; when she's actually amused it's usually expressed with an open-mouthed grin. Except, remembering her laughter the night they got ice cream, maybe that's changed.

"You go ahead and stay. I'm dying to get off this thing." The rancor is barely evident in her glance as it passes over Logan.

Petturi and Veronica walk toward mess and Logan follows, a few steps behind.

"Not a boat person, Mars-Zare? Well, one more day and, we'll deliver the bodies, then you'll be free to go. Be glad you don't have to work this case. It's going to be a doozy."

Veronica's grin is slightly more authentic, and Logan knows she's responding to the word _doozy_. Cutesy words with the letter z always amused her: doozy, shazaam, bamboozle, zippy. It made her a wicked Scrabble opponent.

"I am glad. I've had my fill of dead people this week." She doesn't have to look at Logan for him to know the comment's for his benefit. "But I'd be glad to know how it all turns out."

"I feel, before this whole thing is done, it'll be huge. I'm sure you'll hear about it."

She puts her hands in her pockets. "I bet. Did you get a hold of your contact?"

"Yeah," Petturi nods, "Last night. So far my cover story's working. Nobody thinks my leaving is anything to concern themselves with."

Petturi steps back to let Veronica go ahead of him into the mess and Logan follows. He gets in line behind them and sits at their same table. Having made up his mind to talk to her, he's decided to stay by her side until she allows it. She's not the only stubborn person on this boat.

Logan pulls his disinterested face while Veronica and Petturi talk. Her body language - the way she holds herself completely stiff and takes slow bites of her food – tells him she's hyper aware of him. But he recognizes that, for Petturi, he's a piece of the scenery. It's amazing how people who don't talk are not seen; no one feels pressure to include them in the conversation.

"So, Veronica, I got an e-mail from a friend of mine that works in the L.A. office."

With a forkful of egg and sausage casserole into her mouth, she has to talk around it. "If it's gifs of cats falling off of things, I've seen it."

Logan's too tired to be amused, and recognizes by the way her eyes stay flat, she's quipping by rote.

Petturi chuckles. "No, it was about you. You've got quite a reputation."

Veronica narrows her eyes. "I haven't done anything to warrant my name being brought up in the L.A. office. Who was the email from?"

"Alex Jameson. Transferred from San Diego to L.A. about a year ago? He said your work in the cybercrime division is unparalleled."

It's weird, but Logan feels proud by proxy, hearing that. Then again, he never doubted her abilities – the opposite, in fact. He'd often thought she was too capable for her own good.

She ignores the compliment. "I think Alex might have blown it out of proportion. The computer geniuses do the heavy lifting; I just break down a few doors and make arrests." Veronica grins at Petturi. "Nothing like, say… holding an AK on a room full of mobsters when your backup is still five minutes away."

Logan stares at Petturi, honestly surprised at this revelation. It's a picture that just won't form in his head with this milquetoast dweeb.

Petturi eyes open wider. "You heard about that?"

She rolls her shoulders and loads her fork with another bite. "I have friends too. That was one little story you left out when we talked yesterday."

_Damn. Do all FBI agents vet each other when they work together on a case? Seems like she landed herself in the right job._

"Because I got an official reprimand for that. Not something I brag about." Petturi's mouth is tight, and he stabs angrily at the plate of eggs in front of him. He shoves the food in his mouth like he was ordered to.

Veronica looks contrite, her stalling tactics familiar as she takes a long pull of her juice. "Sorry. I didn't know. The way it was described you didn't have another choice."

Petturi glares at her for a second longer, then his expression softens. "I didn't. The higher-ups even complimented me, but said they had to write it up anyway. Protocol and that bull."

"Oy. I've had my share of backslaps in the form of warnings and disciplinary actions." Veronica's wry grin loosens Petturi's, and he smiles back.

_Still haven't learned to follow rules, have you?_ While Logan has no doubt she's good at her job, it's not a surprise she still does things her own way.

"So, what else did your source have to say? Did he tell you about that rousing case where I arrested a seventeen-year-old that was selling all his teachers' IDs? The most exciting thing to happen there was when he threw his pet gerbil at me."

Feeling the corners of his mouth twitch, Logan loses the smile when she turns her shoulder, reminding him he's not a part of this conversation. More than that, he's not privy to any anecdotes about her job or her life, something he enjoyed during his brief stint as Malachy.

Petturi laughs and takes his last bite, gathering his dishes to put in the bus tub. "Is it always that tame?"

Veronica skews her mouth to the side and bobs her eyebrows, poking her remaining eggs with the tines of her fork. "At least I'm usually on the right side of the gun. Computer jockeys rarely pack anything other than a Frito gut."

Instead of smiling at her jest, Petturi's expression turns serious, and Logan wonders at it, especially when he leans in and says something to Veronica. At the same moment the men at the table next to them erupt in loud laughter. Petturi pats her hand and walks away to put his dishes in the bus tub.

It's been awhile, but Logan still recognizes the poker face Veronica dons when she doesn't want to show somethins's affected her. The information is filed away, since he isn't in her good graces enough to ask questions about bad experiences on the job. Maybe there's a deeper reason she transferred specialties within the FBI, from violent crimes to the cyber division.

The timeline of her past thirteen years fills itself out in his mind, most of it blank. For just a moment she looks a stranger to him, before her profile settles itself back into its familiar groove.

Veronica finishes her breakfast in silence, then stays sitting at the table. Whatever Petturi said changed her demeanor, or being left alone at the table with Logan did it. Instead of a veneer of relaxed cheeriness, she's mellower, and resigned.

She crumples up her napkin and throws it on her plate, drinks down her juice and looks around the room at various things that catchs her interest. Looking at him from the corner of her eye, their gazes meet for a second, and she gives an angry sigh and looks away again.

When Logan dawdles over his last few bites, not hungry anymore, she grabs his dishes and walks over to throw them in the bin with hers. "Monk, let's go. I want to get down to the freezer before you have to start your shift."

The use of his nickname cut, especially when she barks it in that resentful tone. She's keeping his real identity a secret, but she won't use the name of the man she thought was her friend, either.

Given the raised eyebrows and sudden silence from the table next to them, he's not the only one who notices. No doubt their hanging out and her use of his proper name has churned the gossips cogs since the first day. This little interaction just added grease to the works.

Javier jumps up, eager. "I'll come with you. There's a couple things I need to get out of the crew stores."

_Of course you do. Because it's the one place I can get her alone to talk._

They walk out as a threesome. Veronica leads the way and Javier brings up the rear, ignoring the other men's teasing about him not wanting to go under deck alone with all the bodies.

Apparently Javier did some whining after taking Veronica down the other night, and the crew is smart enough to know who they can rag on, and who they can't. Not a word is mentioned to Logan or Veronica about their newly formed tension.

_Maybe Dick was right all those years ago; the random act of slamming Chuck against a wall is keeping everyone else in line._

Logan first unlocks the small freezer for Javier, then the large one for Veronica and waits in the hall, thrumming his hand on his thigh. It takes Javier forever to get the armful of items he needs, and Logan locks the door behind him.

"Thanks, Monk. I swear I'll find them." Javier's whisper sounds loud in the enclosed space and Logan nods, hoping he'll just leave. Veronica's been in the freezer at least five minutes, and he's wondering what's taking her so long.

Finally alone, he slips into the cooler and watches as she walks the room, frowning.

"What's the matter?"

She shakes her head, not even looking his way. "Obvious answer? Screw you."

_OK. She's not ready to talk yet, or listen._

"I mean other than what's going on with us. You've been in here a long time."

Veronica rubs her hands up and down her arms, covered by a thin cotton shirt. Her focus is still on the bodies in front of her. "I'll take as long as I want. Wait in the hall or give me the keys. I'll lock up when I'm done."

"Done with what?"

She takes a deep breath and scrunches up her face, using the pads of her fingers to rub the pressure point between her brows. "Could you just, for once, leave me alone when I want you to?"

She pulls the hand down from her forehead and tightens it into a fist, then presses it against her mouth. It's a silently eloquent expression of anger. Logan knows he should toss her the keys and leave, but some of their best truths have come out when they were pissed at each other.

Twirling the keyring around his finger might be construed as taunting, but they have to break this stalemate. "No. Not until you either tell me what was bothering you when I walked in, or listen to what I need to say. You pick."

Veronica taps her chin with her fist. Her is voice bitter and controlled. "I pick you shutting up and me ignoring you."

The cold is seeping into his skin, so he knows she's freezing; she's been in here a lot longer than he has. But maybe it's a good thing – wear down her resistance a little. "Door number one it is. What was bothering you when I walked in here?"

Instead of answering she weaves her way in between the rows of bodies, stepping carefully in the narrow spaces.

"Veronica."

He'd settle for even the minor acknowledgement of an eye roll when she ignored him and finishes her walk down the long row. Stopping next to the body she inspected the first day, Veronica squats down and takes the gloves out of her back pocket.

Logan swallows as she opens the bag and exposes the same arm she did the first morning, the one with painted nails and garish rings. They've got about twenty-four hours until they're in L.A. and there's a lot to discuss, not the least of which is Gai. He doesn't want to wait any longer, even if it means they have to talk over a corpse.

"Veronica, I –" He stops.

She gently prods at the body in various places. Finally resting back on her heels she speaks to the air in front of her. "My _name_ is Agent Mars-Zare, and it's too cold. You need to back the temp off a few degrees."

"Yeah, okay, but she…" Logan barely registers the formality Veronica insists on, as if it will help erase any of their history; he's too busy searching his memory to be sure. But he's right. He'll never forget that hand and its rings.

Veronica looks at him, distracted from her examination when his voice tapers off. "What?" she snaps.

This is the first time all morning she's looked directly at him, or been interested in anything he had to say. "You know what? Forget I said anything. I'm probably wrong."

Veronica takes her time looking over the woman in front of her, as if she'll provide the answer Logan's holding back. Her controlled exhale comes a minute later, heavy and tired. "Just tell me, and I'll figure out if it's wrong."

_Curiosity, meet Spark. At least this is getting you to talk._

"No, forget I said anything. Are you ready to go?"

She brushes the woman's hair off her forehead. The move creates the eerie image of her presiding over a ritual of last rites. "Logan, if something's wrong just tell me. These people deserve better than our old games."

The use of his real name, and the weary calm in her voice makes him feel small; a petty imitation of a grown man in size eleven work boots.

_Dude. All these people lost their lives this week, and you're acting like an asshat. Be a grownup._

"Her hand."

Veronica's sigh is probably due as much to the cold as to him. "What? It looks normal to me."

"No." He shakes his head, unable to tear his gaze away from that grayish skin. "She was wearing three rings before. The topaz is missing."

She picks up the hand and examines it, then reaches into the body bag and feels around. Coming up with nothing, Veronica puts her wrists on her knees. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"What could have…" Her face goes blank as she concentrates on whatever is going through her mind, staring at a point past his shoulder.

"What?" he asks.

"Do the bodies seem like they've moved at all to you?"

A shiver works its way up his spine, and it's damn sure got nothing to do with the cold. "Okay, that's not creepy."

Her exhale is rife with exasperation. "That's not what I mean. It just seems like they were lined up slightly different. There was less space between them."

Logan studies the black bags, but nothing seems markedly out of place. Three rows of bodies, lined up perfectly parallel to each other. His earlier thought about a 'Reanimator' sequel is recalled though, which doesn't help his concentration. "It's a boat, Veronica. Cargo shifts all the time."

He waits for her to correct his use of her first name, but that's not where her head is. Instead, her eyes lock with his and she replaces the woman's hand into the bag, then zips it closed. "I'll be right back."

She brushes past him and out the door, leaving him alone in the room full of bodies. Logan steps into the hallway, preferring to wait where it's a bit warmer and less occupied. It's an interminable three minutes before she returns, carting her laptop. She shoves it at him and he holds it while she works the pad one-fingered, punctuating her scrolling with a strong _tap_ here and there.

"Got her. There _were_ three rings." She looks up at him, but he can see her gaze is turned inward. On the upside, she's set aside her rancor in favor of this new mystery. "Someone had to have taken it. Who all has keys to this room?"

Bile rises up his throat at the certainty that one of their crew robbed these people. "Diego, me, and Javier."

"That's it? Wait, didn't you loan Javier your keys before, and open the freezer for him today?"

"Yeah." He closes his eyes and swallows. "Javier lost his keys. He had them the first night you guys were here, but couldn't find them by the next morning."

Veronica's eyes turn to cold steel. "Diego wouldn't give me keys, but didn't bother to mention that a set is missing?"

Logan silently curses Javier. With all their other complications, this is the last thing he and Veronica need between them. "Diego didn't know. Javier loses them all the time and I cover for him so Diego doesn't fire him. They usually turn up after a day or two."

"So our pool of suspects just jumped to everyone on the crew. This is just fabulous."

_What's fabulous is now you have a great reason to avoid talking._

Logan could smack himself for mentioning the ring. He should have remembered the way she used to bury herself in work to avoid their problems, and he'd just given her the prime opportunity.

"Don't forget you and that Petturi guy. That's twelve possibles." He doesn't miss the petulance in his own voice, and isn't proud of it. So much for acting like a grownup. Her eyes flash at him with mild irritation.

"Unofficially, let's say we narrow that down to ten. I'm not one for grave robbing and, unless you've burnt through your entire trust fund, I don't think you need the money." She purses her lips. "Did you burn through your trust fund?"

_Yes. I always wanted to do a personal remake of Brewster's Millions. Best fifty days of my life._

They aren't on good terms, and Logan doesn't want to make her angrier so he bites back the remark. "No. I've barely touched the interest."

"Then why are you working –," Veronica bites her lip and closes her eyes, shaking her head like she's trying to get an answer on a Magic 8 ball. "You know these guys. Suspect number one?"

His earlier ploy, to use her curiosity to get her to talk to him, backfired. Now he can see that same thirst is there, but she's become better at stepping away from an unanswered question.

Logan does know these guys, most of them anyway, and is aware how they all struggle to live on the salary they earn. But ripping off cadavers? That's a special breed of low.

"Chuck, if I had to pick a name. I overhead him say that these people deserved what happened to them because they were so rich. But there're only a few of the crew I'd rule out."

Veronica groans and rolls her shoulders. When she looks at him again she shakes her head. "The victims weren't rich. They were DEA and FBI agents, and crew members from the yacht."

So her tender touch, brushing the dead woman's hair off her forehead, was more than just compassion. Knowing most of these victims were also in law enforcement would make this more of a brotherhood-in-arms thing for Veronica. "Did you know any of them? I mean, personally."

She shakes her head. "No, they were primarily out of Chicago."

Damn him and curiosity that every one of her answers creates new questions. "What were they all doing on a yacht?"

"I don't know everything, because it's not my case, but they wanted to close down a channel of drugs between a Chilean cartel and a U.S. mob. They were working with the Carabineros de Chile on a sting op that went bad. A boat full of dead people bad."

Logan ponders that, trying to match it up to the conversation he heard between Veronica and Petturi the first morning. "You think the cartel Petturi infiltrated was involved. With that German dude."

She nods. "That's why Petturi got assigned the case. He's familiar with their members and their methods, and the home office was prepping him to pull out anyway. This just accelerated the timeline. If they'll gas a boatful of US agents, what would they do to a turncoat that's been with them for three years?"

The computer is now warm in Logan's hands and he sets it at their feet, leaning a shoulder against the wall while he looks down at her. "What do you mean, gas them?"

Veronica pulls her mouth down into a scowl. "They tied them all up in the salon and screening room, closed up all the doors and windows, and ran some portable generators. Everyone died of carbon monoxide poisoning."

"Gas chambers? Why not just go all in and use cyanide?" As soon as it's out, Logan mentally bitchslaps himself for the sarcastic remark. He's gotten better about using inappropriate, dark comments to keep from really feeling something, but this situation has him regressing.

Fortunately, Veronica is too much in detective mode to call him out on it. "We're lucky they didn't. If they had used any kind of toxin or nerve gas, handling the bodies would be much more problematic. As it was, we just had to air out the rooms before we went in."

"But—" The next question is on his tongue, but he clamps it down when her hand moves toward his arm. Which she reverses immediately, her brows together.

"I've already told you more than I should, and it's not even my case. I have a more immediate problem to deal with. Someone stole that ring, and possibly other things from the bodies. They're not only thieves, they're messing with evidence."

"So, what do you want to do?"

Her professional demeanor brings back all the times they worked together, first on his behalf, then for fun when he helped her out on some of her P.I. cases. She was so good at putting personal issues on the back shelf when there was a mystery to be solved, and now he's caught up in it, too. But maybe this is how they'll find their way back to a place where they can really talk.

She checks her watch. "Not tip off that we know something is wrong. You're due on shift in five minutes. Lock up the freezer and go to work, I'll handle it from here. All you need to do is not say anything."

_Stupid, Logan. She's already got a partner. You'll need to find another way to get through to her._

"Okay. If you and Petturi need anything, just let me know."

She shakes her head. "No Petturi - not yet. I don't know how he works and I want a chance to find out more before I involve him."

"Still Clint Eastwood, huh?" Logan frowns at her, unsettled that this hasn't changed.

"What do you mean?"

"Go all in, Dirty Harry style, without wanting or needing any backup."

The ten minutes of non-animosity she'd given him made him fall back into their old habits. Habits that include worrying over her tendency to think she can solve all the world's problems by herself. But he remembers their current status when he sees the anger return in the cock of her head and her tight, hostile smile.

"We knew each other for a short period a long time ago, _Monk_. You don't know anything about me anymore. Just go to work and keep your mouth shut about this."

Veronica leans down and scoops up her laptop, slamming it shut and shouldering past him roughly. The sound of her feet pounding on the stairs and the deck above fades.

_Well done, Logan. Now what?_

His only option is to adjust the temperature and lock the freezer, double checking this time so he doesn't have to wonder about it later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Once again huge thanks to nevertothethird for saving me from myself repeatedly. I get so lost in the tangle of my own words and I cannot tell you how many times she has grabbed me by the hand and helped me find my way.
> 
> A/N: THANK YOU everyone for all your reviews, favorites and follows. Your support is what kept me coming back over and over to work on this until it felt right.
> 
> Sorry for the long time between updates! Got a little sidetracked with the excitement of the movie and my awesome fangirl trip to Seattle to share the monumental event with nevertothethird. I have to tell ya'll, if you've read her stories, her meta or watched the Mars Minute, she represents just as well in real life.


	7. Finding a Way

Logan relieves Diego, and sends the exhausted man off to bed. Today will be a tad cooler just for the eight degrees of latitude they've traveled during the night. Ahead, the sky is pale blue and cloudless, a contrast with the rippling path of dark, empty ocean. Paradise in the middle of his personal hell.

Had he another job, he could take a sick day and deal with his mess. But Veronica and Diego both insist he act like everything is normal, each for their own reasons. Now he's stuck in this wheelhouse with too much time to think.

_What's it going to be today? Everything you've done wrong since she got on this ship, or should we go back farther?_

Given all the ways he failed Veronica before, there's a lot to choose from. When she looked for his mom, even after the way he treated her following Lilly's death. His part in her rape. Madison. Dick, Mercer, beating up Piz. Leaving her.

_Dude, wouldn't you rather play I Spy?_

_Water, railing, rope. Boring. Let's go with Clue – the FuckUp version. You, under the stars, that kiss. You, on the deck, when she explained that you were dead and you didn't say anything. You, in the kitchen, when she talked about saying goodbye to you. Huh. There's only one suspect card in this game. Boring, again._

By ten Logan's sick of himself. His brain just won't shut up, and he's resorted to blaring an old Papa Roach CD to drown it out. It's a relief when Veronica walks in and he can shut the stereo off. She plants herself behind him, where he has to turn sideways so he can see her and still do his job.

"Hi."

"Hi."

They start talking together, his "Veronica - " giving way to her, " - need more information about the crew."

Disappointment acts as gravity, sinking him into the chair. Stupidly, he'd hoped she'd come to see him for their reasons. "Yeah, and we need to talk."

"No," Veronica snaps. She draws in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. When she speaks it's calm, reasonable, and as firm as her grip on the counter behind her. "I don't want to talk. I don't want to fight. I just want to do my job and go home."

"I can explain-"

"Stop. You can't." Those damn expressive eyes of hers turn watery, imploring. "No explanation will cut it. Not after you let me - " The corners of her lips go white in anger as she shakes her head.

_I let you... what? Trust me, kiss me, believe I was dead?_ Nothing he's done can make that sentence end well.

Logan waits but the accusations never come, a first for her. It's unnerving, and leaves him less room to get inside this and fix it.

"I'm sorry. I was trying to do the right thing, and I fucked up."

Her eyes narrow, and incredulity pulls her mouth open. "The right thing? You are unbelievable." She glances to the floor. When her eyes rise to meet his, they're dry, having gathered what she needs to face him with strength. "It doesn't matter. I don't even care anymore."

He turns, facing out at sea again. It's easier to look at the deep blue of the water than the lighter hue in her eyes, so flat when she glared at him. "You don't care."

"No." Veronica's voice carries from behind him, so assured Logan could almost believe it, if he wanted to.

"So that's it. You've said your piece and counted to three." The resentment coursing through him affects his tone, and he barely gets the wherewithal to glimpse backward. Their eyes meet and she nods, though she has a hard time maintaining eye contact with him.

"Veronica, if that were true you wouldn't be up here."

The control she's been holding slips, evident as her chin quivers when she swallows. "It needs to be true. And I'm up here because of this case."

Logan can't stand the pain etched on her face. He glances down, uses his thumbnail to remove a scuff mark from the soft, plastic coating on the steering wheel. "What about Gai?"

He doesn't think she'll answer, and interprets the sounds behind him as her leaving. But when he glances back, she's repositioned herself so her back is to him, concentrating on the view out the rear window.

"Veronica, what are you going to tell him?"

She shakes her head. "Nothing, for now. As far as he's concerned, I'm down here for work."

"But, at some point..."

"I gave him my name." She turns to face him with crossed arms and stony expression. "The father's name on his birth certificate is blank, and Sam adopted him after we got married. Gai was five. He remembers all of that but Sam _is_ his dad. I'll tell him the basics when he's older, or sooner if he asks." Her chin juts out. "He's never asked."

So Logan's a non-entity to this child, without as much as a name. His blood becomes sludge, making every movement and thought an effort. "And if he wants to meet me, whenever you _do_ tell him?"

"I know how to find you. Now."

His eyes scan the horizon, seeing nothing but obstacles although it's only water, sky, and wind in front of them. He can't leave things this broken between them, but his options are few. She doesn't want to talk, and she doesn't want to listen. Bullying her into dealing with him right now will end in a fight. They can't afford another fight.

Everything left unsaid ricochets between them, and he can't think over the noise of it. The lining of his throat has thickened, and his voice sounds forced. "So that's it, that's your plan. We play polite. You get off the boat tomorrow, and I may never hear a word about you, or Gai, again."

"Other than you pitching in on this case, yes."

He can't even pretend to be surprised at that. Only Veronica would shut him down and then demand his help, all in the same conversation.

The walkie scratches out George's voice and Logan notices some white shapes, a cluster of vessels ahead of them. He presses down the button and whistles, his signal for 'message received'.

It takes about ten minutes to get clear of the boats, giving the task more attention than warranted. When he glances back, Veronica hasn't moved.

"Would you notice anybody going in and out the door to the cooler storage while you're driving?" she asks, the question as much challenge as inquiry.

Everything choking him before is gone. Bitter resentment made his mouth dry, and he bites the inside of his cheek, hard, to get the saliva going. Their working together is his lifeline – otherwise she wouldn't have a reason to speak to him again.

"I'm usually facing ahead. See, the idea is to look where you're going so you don't hit anything."

She ignores his mordant tone. "I came up dry in Chuck's room, but that doesn't mean anything. If he's the thief, he could have the ring on him, or already stashed it somewhere else."

_Jesus, Chuck's room? You still don't hold back, do you?_

"Or he's not the thief."

"Or that. What about the rest of the crew? I don't have a lot of time and you're my best option for narrowing this down."

"What do you need?"

"A list of the crew members. Their situation - financial and family. Work history. Rating from one to ten on a thief-o-meter. A list of anything unusual you've noticed. And your key to the cooler."

Logan pulls his key ring out of his pocket and removes the one to her body storage room. Turning to face the window, he checks his gages and their course while holding the key above his shoulder. He has the childish temptation to pinch it tightly, and make her work for it. Instead he keeps his grip loose, and the key slides through his fingers as she slips it from his hand.

"I'll catch up with you later for those lists."

Her footsteps are followed by the door opening and closing.

* * *

The first list she needed took a bit of time, but is now done. The crew members lives are dissected, and written in order by the probability they stole the ring. Chuck's the most likely suspect, rated a nine. Diego, Javier and Winston tie for least probable, at a one each. The rest vary from the two he gave Carlos, his friend and fellow driver, to the six assigned to Louis. Connor and Vincente are the unknowns, being new to their crew.

As he finished the second list, Javier brought him a plate of lunch and Logan casually inquired if the idiot had found his keys yet. He hadn't.

Veronica,

This is everything I came up with. I'll keep thinking on it, and if anything else occurs to me, I'll let you know:

1) Tuesday night - Javier's keys went missing– as of 12pm today he still hasn't found them.

2) Wednesday morning, I saw the woman's hand had three rings.

3) Thursday morning, one of the bags was unzipped

4) Diego said the freezer was unlocked Thursday night. (I may have left it unlocked that morning but I don't remember)

5) Friday - this morning - the bodies seemed like they were moved, as if someone was trying to walk between them. Ring missing.

Logan searches his brain for anything else significant to tell her and, finding nothing, turns the pad to a fresh page. His and Veronica's every interaction since she got on the ship Tuesday night started its too-familiar loop again. The list he'd written made sense of all the random clues about the theft. Maybe he can do the same for himself, by writing down everything that's happened and what he should have done differently. Get it out of his head, at least.

After twenty minutes the only thing written isa title, _Blunders of an Overgrown Jackass,_ like a school essay. The pictures in his skull won't translate into words, though, so he flips to a fresh page. A rousing game of tic-tac-toe might get him going.

However, instead of drawing the nine-square, he ends up writing _Veronica_. Four syllables. Eight letters – four vowels, four consonants. Easy to use as inspiration for other words, if he was to play hangman instead: cavern, ravine, cornea, nice, con, naïve. Except hangman is an even worse game to play by yourself.

He throws down the pencil and places both hands on the wheel, double checking the instruments and their course. His eyes keep wandering down to the page in front of him, the name at the top left, like the beginning of a letter.

A letter. Something he hasn't written since he was a lovesick teenager. Funny enough, it had started with the same salutation, when they were in their freshman year at Hearst. For weeks he'd tried to tell Veronica how he felt, but each time she cut him off with a joke. Putting words to paper guaranteed no interruptions.

He'd held onto the thing for three days, finally tucking it inside her messenger bag when she was leaving for a stakeout. Though he wanted her to know everything he was feeling, he hadn't been brave enough to watch her read it.

_The display on his phone reads "Bobcat", and he swallows nervously before picking up. She'd been gone three hours, plenty of time to find the letter. "You're calling. Is that a good sign or a bad one?"_

_"What does that mean?"_

_Her confusion has him palming his forehead. She hadn't found the letter yet. Just thinking she had made him realize what a spectacularly bad idea it had been._

_"Um," he clears his throat, "your job. Are you bored, or did you get done early?"_

_"Neither. I left my camera battery charging in your room. Can you bring it to me?"_

_All he needs is a minute alone with her bag and he can pinch the letter. She'll never know. "Sure. Yeah. Yes. Text me the address."_

_It's amazing he can steer with his fingers thrumming against the wheel so erratically. He had to pass through downtown and the dinner time traffic didn't help; it bogged him down and left more time which during which she might dig in her purse._

_He pulls up behind her just as it's getting dark., Logan launches himself out of the Rover and at her passenger door while she's still rolling down the window on the driver's side. When she disengaged the lock, he falls gracelessly into the seat, her bag between his feet on the floor._

_Veronica snickers. "If I'm driving the getaway car, you might warn me ahead of time. Make sure I leave it running."_

_"Just trying to make sure I wasn't spotted. Isn't this a covert op?" He grins and leans over to kiss her, subtly reaching a hand down to flip her bag open._

_She smiles against his lips. "Good thing it's not. The only way you could have been less subtle is if you slid across my hood."_

_Logan turns his head and laughs, perusing the dark businesses around them but sneaking a peek down while he's at it. Nothing in her canvas sack shines white, though there's enough residual glow from the streetlight to make his letter easy to spot, if it were on top._

_"So, what are we looking for?"_

_"We? When did this become a 'we' operation? Battery," Veronica demands, opening up her camera and holding out her hand._

_He digs the battery out of his pocket, and stretches it just out of her reach into the backseat. "Since you ended up in the warehouse district after dark. The dealings happening here this time of night are unsavory. Nefarious. Disreputable even."_

_"Hence the need for my services. Man, how did you even get into college?" She places the camera on the dashboard, her eyes flicking between his face and the battery in Logan's hand. It's a game they play, him holding something over his head until she has to climb him to get it. This was a new twist, though._

_"Like I get everything else. Charisma and sexual magnetism. Or, when that fails, money—" She lunges for his hand, and he tosses the battery just before she gets ahold of it. Her dive gives him precious seconds to root in the top half of her crammed bag. No paper. It must be buried at the bottom._

_Chancing a look backward to see how much time he has left, he's distracted. Veronica's leaning over the backset, rooting around in the trunk area, her ass high in the air. The short skirt she's wearing rode up, giving a flash of white bikinis just under the hem. All thoughts of the letter are wiped from his brain as he focuses on her maneuvering - thighs shifting and clenching._

_"Got it!" she exclaims, twisting to plop down and hold up the battery in victory. "Give me my camera. And I swear to god if you throw it, I'll use the replacement to take pictures of your tombstone."_

_Reaching across the dash, he scoops up the camera and holds it out to her, but instead she cocks an eyebrow at him. "After making me go through that, you aren't even going to deliver it?"_

_Logan grins and climbs over the center console, his long legs making the effort more work than it should be. Landing in the seat beside her, he hands her the Nikon. Her practiced fingers install the battery in seconds, and she lifts the camera toward his face._

_The flash is bright in the darkened car, momentarily blinding him. With only four senses, he's left with hearing her laughing apology, and the sensation of a kiss on his cheek. And the memory of how she'd looked bent over, just a moment ago. Instead of letting her go he pulls her closer, finding her lips by instinct, and meshing them with his._

_The Saturn has about the same size backset as his Xterra did, and they know how to make the space work for them. Veronica stretchs out on the seat under him, leaving him room to ride his knee high between her thighs while unbuttoning her blouse. Her hands reach up to unfasten his pants, yanking them down low enough to take him in hand._

_Car sex is always a risky venture, even with tinted windows, so urgency adds a delicious factor. They usually end with Veronica in his lap, faces smashed together and breathing the same air. Tonight, though, he has something different in mind._

_The preliminaries make them both crazy, and the condom is fished from his wallet with fumbling fingers. He turns her around so she's still in his lap but facing out the front window. Her knees press together to make the position work, so she's even tighter than usual._

_They start slow, Logan's hands on her hips to help guide and find a rhythm that works for them both. Soon her hands move from his thighs to clutch the shoulder rests of the seats in front of her, leaving him free to stroke her breasts._

_He's the first to climax, then pulls her back until she's flush with his chest and he can reach down to touch her until she cries out and clenches around him. Their follow-up kisses are breathless and filled with laughter, and the gawky work of uncoupling._

_Searching the seat pockets for paper napkins or tissues, he comes up with nothing. The car is still too new to develop the cache the LeBaron had earned. When Veronica suggests he try her bag, he remembers his original goal._

_Leaning across the console, it's his turn to have his ass in the air. He expects the smack she gives him and ignores it, still intent on retrieving his letter. A two minute search comes up with enough tissues for clean-up, but that's it._

_Finally redressed, he collapses on the seat beside her, wondering. The car is too clean for the letter to have fallen out, unnoticed. Which means it had to have happened somewhere between his suite and the car. Which further means that his words are out there for anybody to find._

Fucking hell.

_Veronica's voice is weirdly shy. "So, about what you wrote?"_

_"What I – you found it?"_

_She reaches down, grabbing something between the side door and the backseat and hands it to him. "Right after I took the pictures I needed, and was putting away my camera. Then I drove over here and called you." The flap of the envelope is open._

_"Took the pictures you needed? Then why did you need the camera battery?"_

_"I didn't."_

_He takes a minute to let that get through. She'd gotten him here under a ruse. To one of the most deserted streets in Neptune. The letter was stashed in the backseat, as if she'd planned on them ending up here._

_The grin he's fighting to hold back wins. Throwing an arm over her shoulders, he cups her jaw and pulls her in for a lips-only kiss, ending with their foreheads resting against each other. "Why?"_

_"Your letter. It reminded me that the first time you said that, we were in the Xterra. So, this seemed an appropriate place to tell you, you know…me too."_

_He'd written a lot of things in the letter. A lot of things that really boiled down to just one. He'd completely fallen for her. His heart hammers a reggae rhythm, hard enough to crack his sternum. She's not ready to say the words yet, not really, but it's enough. Enough that she finally knew how he felt, and returned the sentiment._

Goddammit! The anger and frustration backs up, and there's no outlet since he's stuck behind the helm for a couple more hours. If there weren't already grooves for his fingers in the steering wheel, his white-knuckled grip would create them.

But damn it all to hell. Sure they had their problems, but had usually found a way through them, given enough time. It's the one thing he lacks on this round.

Studying the paper before him, he sees her name again, at the top. Like the letter he'd written her before. The letter with everything she wouldn't let him say.

Pulling the pad closer, he picks up the pencil, and adds a _Dear_ before the _Veronica._ It's annoying, using the wrist of one arm to keep the pad still so he can write, while the other hand remains on the wheel at all times. The maneuver is well practiced, though, since he's spent years communicating his thoughts on paper. It's fitting he has to do so now.

Unfortunately _,_ after the trite beginning he's stumped. There's too much to tell her and he doubts she'll read much past her name. Logan faces the dilemma of all writers, but his task is even more difficult. Not only is he trying to pull his reader in with the first sentence, Veronica has made it clear she doesn't care about a word he has to say.

Giving up for now, he leaves the first couple of lines empty and starts writing below them. An attention-grabbing opener may occur to him later, but it won't matter if it heads a blank page.

_Dear Veronica,_

_I'm sorry. For everything. You can insert those two words after everything I've done, like people do with the words 'in bed' at the end of fortune cookies. I left you all those years ago, and I'm sorry. I didn't tell you the truth that day, and I'm sorry. I let you think I was dead, and I'm sorry. I pretended to be someone else for the past two days, and I'm sorry._

_I left you to raise our son without my help, and for that I am so fucking sorry._

_Please believe I wouldn't have done any of those things if I thought I had another choice._

_The thing is, I screwed up. Again. You warned me not to go after Gorya Sorokin, but I beat him up anyway. I loved you and was pissed off at what he did to you. You were going to let it go, but I wanted to be the one to make him pay. For you._

Logan stops, thinking about that. Had he hit Gory for Veronica? In his nineteen-year-old head he'd thought so, but he's not nineteen anymore.

_No, I did it for me because I was a stupid kid. I was crazy in love and wanted to get you your pound of flesh. So I got it, but I paid it back tenfold…_

The words come easier, almost magically appearing on the page as his mind runs over the events of thirteen years ago. After Veronica for left school he'd gotten in the shower, his feet barely touching the ground on the way. He'd accidentally scrubbed his hair with body wash, distracted by all the possibilities going through his mind. Thoughts of everything that was ahead of them: dinner that night, figuring out how much time he could spend in Virginia without getting in the way of her internship. Finding a place to live that was cheaper than the Grand - if Veronica's complex had an opening, they could spend more time together. It was a dump, but she was there and it was right by the beach.

_Hearing a knock as he pulls on his shirt, he answers the door to find a stranger standing there._

_"Dick doesn't live here anymore. You can find him at the frat house." Logan goes to close the door, but it's met with a cast the guy is wearing on his arm, making a 'thunk' sound._

_"I'm here for you. We have something to discuss."_

_Logan scans the man up and down, taking in the retroish clothes and close-cropped, black hair. He pegs the guy to be about thirty, though he could be younger. He has one of those faces that'll look the same from twenty to forty, and he's already thinning on top. "I know you?"_

_"No. But we have a mutual acquaintance. Gorya Sorokin."_

_"Never heard of him."_

_Cast-Dude snickers and shakes his head. "You really are an idiot. You gave a pounding to the guy three days ago and didn't even bother to find out who he is?"_

_At least now Logan has a name. He can find this Gorya Sorokin and give him another reminder not to broadcast private moments._

_"Is there a point to this visit?"_

_"Yeah. One you don't want discussed in the hallway. Trust me."_

_Logan considers this, then opens the door wider to let him in. He watches as his visitor settles himself into the couch, like he belongs there. Logan sits himself at the opposite end, and cocks eyebrow. "As long as you're making yourself at home, mind telling me your name?"_

_"Gory's the only name you need to worry about. Do you know_ anything _about the Sorokins?"_

_Veronica warned that Gorya is connected-connected, but Logan's played the 'do you know who I am' card too many times himself to care. "Other than their son is an asshole? No, not really. Should I?"_

_Cast-Dude's fingertips rub his temples, and his expression conveys he's dealing with an idiot. "Yeah. When one of them puts a hit out on you, you should."_

This can't be real. _He rolls his eyes. "Are you fucking kidding me? Over a school-yard fight?"_

_"No. Over a public humiliation. Nobody does that to a Sorokin and gets away with it."_

_It's ridiculous to even think this threat is any more than that. Yet, given the other man's serious tone, Logan's heart beats faster and it's impossible to sit still. He stands up to move behind the couch, and clutches the back of it so hard his fingers sink into the soft leather. "Yeah, okay, but a hit? What the hell? He's too much of a coward to deal with me face-to-face?"_

_Cast-Dude snickers. "Yeah, he is. My advice? You've got money; take off and don't look back."_

_The thought that he would run away pisses Logan off. No way is he afraid of that little wanna-be Michael Corleone and his pathetic threats. But even so, his breath is harder to find, making him clench his teeth._

_The oppressive weight of The Inevitable makes itself known again, pressing down on his back and chest concurrently. He'd dared to be happy, even for a minute; he should have expected this. Fighting is useless, he should know by now, but running is an even worse option._

_"Your advice." Desperation colors his voice. "Who the hell are you and why should I take this seriously?"_

_"I'm the guy putting together the dossier to give your assassin tomorrow - these fuckers have three on retainer. I've got your schedule, your acquaintances, where you surf, where you buy your beauty products. And who you spent last night with."_

_Logan feels a bolt of fury hit him. He launches at Cast-Dude, pulls him up by his butterfly-esque lapels and positions himself an inch from the guy's face. "Veronica has nothing to do with this. I'm the one Sorokin needs to deal with."_

_"Gory won't give a fuck about Mars, especially if I leave her sleepover out of my report. Oh, and a word to the wise, whatever you do? The mob has hackers like the rest of the world." Reaching up, Cast-Dude pulls Logan's hands off his shirt and sets himself back on the couch. He hadn't flinched during the entire exchange; he's used to dealing with violent men._

_Logan remains standing while his mind spirals, trying to figure a way out. "If you work for this guy, why are you telling me this?"_

_"Let's say I've had a few reasons to question my loyalty." He raises his arm, the one with the cast. "And I'm in the mood to piss off Gory. You'll do."_

_"So warning me is your little 'fuck you' to your boss? Why not leave, instead?"_

_"Because I'm in too deep." Cast-Dude's mouth turns down sourly. "I'm like the tiniest matryoshka doll, stuck inside this goddamn organization with no way out." He shuts his eyes and lets out a deep breath. "'If it takes my life, I'll have yours'. It's the family fucking motto."_

_The whole conversation is surreal, reminiscent of his dad's cheesy 80s movies. His hands entwine on the top of his head to hold his brain still. "Why should I believe this?"_

_Cast-Dude stands up and walks toward the door. "You don't have to believe anything. I could give a shit what happens to you, or the slutty cheerleader. Before you make up your mind, though, google the name Martin Magnus."_

_In any other situation, the slur against Veronica would push Logan into a rage. However, it's the bottom of the priority list, and only reminds him how easily Gory could put her in his scope. If this is real, which it isn't._

_Once alone, Logan tries to stay convinced the whole thing's an elaborate prank - Sorokin trying to gaslight him. It doesn't stop him from opening his laptop, though, and typing in 'Martin Magnus'._

February 24, 2007: Police are investigating a car explosion that

occurred on Benevolent St. in Providence, RI about 8pm last night.

Martin Magnus 38, his wife Amanda 37, and their

son James, 3, were killed instantly.

The Magnus' were recent residents of Boston and had moved to the Providence area a few months

ago. Martin was an independent CPA and Amanda was a homemaker.

_He finds several follow up articles. A bomb caused the explosion, and Martin Magnus had worked as an accountant for known members of Boston's Sorokin Crime Family before relocating. No suspects were ever arrested and the crime remained unsolved, despite speculation it was a mob hit. A mob hit that killed a three-year-old kid and a wife that likely had nothing to do with why Martin was targeted._

_Numerous other articles link Gory and various members of the Sorokin family to other capital crimes, though there are few arrests and even fewer convictions._

_Logan doesn't have to take Cast-Dude's advice. He has options, lots of them. After everything he's survived, this can't be the thing that brings him down. Screw Gory. He's just a weak little fuck who can't even show up to his own fight. Even his underlings turn against him._

_Except, he can't ignore this, and hope it's not real. Might as well just park his ass on Gory's doorstep and blow his own head off, if he's going to go that route. Then something will actually stick to the fucker, even if it's only a little brain matter._

_As for options, Logan could notify the sheriff he's a mark - a sheriff department that's led by the newly anointed Vinnie Van Lowe. He could hire round-the-clock bodyguards, and live his life as an open target. He could stay and chance Veronica getting killed, like Martin Magnus' family._

_And if Gory had him killed, what would Veronica do? Wear a black dress and cry at his grave, then move on? Or would it become her life's mission to make sure somebody paid?_

_It's the hardest decision Logan's ever had to make, though executing the practical aspects is far too easy. He sends Dick a text to have his stuff out of the room by tomorrow because he's checking out. Room service brings up boxes so he can pack up all his things to get rid of; nothing should be left behind for Veronica to go through. He makes a plane reservation for later that day and an appointment for the New York branch of his bank the next._

_All that's left is finding a way to end things with Veronica so she isn't suspicious. He has to make her hate him, but not question him. And that means playing off all the ways they've gone wrong in the past. It means betraying himself and destroying every dream he's ever had. It means hurting her._

His hand is starting to cramp from holding the pencil so tightly. Shaking it out, he takes a minute to sip some water and figure out what else to include. He won't replay their strategically public breakup in the parking lot at Hearst; neither of them needs the reminder.

Logan also doesn't want to add anything that happened to him after he left. She knows the basics, and wouldn't be interested in the rest. Fishing a sharpener out of a drawer, he hones the pencil to a fine tip.

_Veronica, we had our own ideas about how to handle situations, and it caused more than one fight between us. Whether you agree with my choices back then, please understand I thought I was doing the right thing. I worried how far you would go if you knew about Gory._

_The past few days, I didn't lie to you out of some twisted sense of fun; this wasn't a game. Though, I guess, if I wasn't going to tell you truth I should've left you alone. Ignored you, been an asshole, make you think I wasn't interested in your company. Except, Veronica, the first time I saw you on this ship you were crying. I need to know if you were okay._

_So I spent time with you, and you seemed happy with your life - I had nothing to add to that. I saw how sad you were about my dying in Paraguay, but figured it was the best ending we would get. Okay, that's only half true. You said you'd forgiven me, and I was afraid if I told you the truth, you would take it back._

_Shit. All that's only half true, too. This doesn't excuse anything, but the thing is, I missed you. Not just what we were, or what we could have been, but YOU. I missed your face and your jokes, the way you walk into a room and make grown men quake in fear. I missed the way you can have a normal conversation while solving a hundred problems in your head. I missed the way I could surprise you, making you smile or laugh. I just - I goddamn missed you._

_This may be too little, too late, but I changed my mind last night. I decided to tell you everything, even before I found out about Gai. Then we were on the deck and-. Well, anyway, you figured it out on your own. I don't blame you for shutting me out now. I had so many chances to make this better and I blew every one. Again, I'm sorry._

_As for my hiding from you the past thirteen years, the obvious argument would be that Gory wouldn't care about me anymore. Except, I did a little digging when I first left and I don't think it's that easy. People who mess with the Sorokins turn up dead. That's just the way it goes._

_I can accept that fate, as long as you guys are safe. The man that came to see me made it clear, as long as I stay away from you, Gory will focus on just me. That's why - understand that when I don't show up on your doorstep, it's only because I won't take risks with your and Gai's safety. I don't have the benefit of anonymity, especially in Southern California._

_That means it's up to you_

Logan lifts up the pencil, watches the waves and takes a deep breath before adding _and Sam_

_what happens next. Up to the two of you if I ever get to meet Gai. Name the time, date, and country and I'll be there; I won't disappear again. After this week I'll no longer be working this job, so I'm just a phone call or a flight away. My current contact information is at the end of this letter, but if anything changes I'll pass a message through that lawyer, Cliff, using the name Harpo Marcel._

He doesn't mention he'll also funnel a trust fund and college account for Gai through Cliff - there's enough in this letter to upset her. He hovers over the bottom of the sixth page, discarding everything he really wants to add. It would all come down to begging and more apologies, and messages to Gai he has no right to ask her to pass on.

_Veronica, the past few days I've been rethinking everything that happened. Maybe all of this was fate, or serendipity, or whatever. You were supposed to have Gai, and find Sam, without me hanging around. Chances are I'd have found a way to fuck things up; I still had a lot of growing up to do back then._

Though if this week proved anything, he still has a lot of growing up to do. One more thing he doesn't need to point out to her.

_I'm glad our paths crossed again, though I wish it had gone better. I wish I'd done it better. I've wondered a thousand times if I made the right choice in leaving. I don't have to wonder anymore; you're safe, happy, and have the life you deserve. I also got to find out about Gai, and can tell you I'm here, if you either of you ever need anything. A kidney, a lung, more answers, whatever – I'm here. And, honestly? It was incredible to see you again._

_Always,_

_Logan_

The few ounces of paper aren't enough, but he'll count himself lucky if she reads the whole letter. There's no sense pushing it. Going back to the first page, he fills in the lines he'd left blank with two words, **_GORYA SOROKIN._** Written in all capitals and traced over repeatedly, they appear as if he wrote them with a marker.

Since he doesn't have an envelope, he folds the stack of papers into thirds, blank side out. The deep front pocket of his shorts conceals it well enough, until he can figure out what to do with it.

* * *

Logan turns to the door when Carlos walks in, on time for once, and sees him lounging in the doorframe. Carlos eyes him up and down, and gives a smartass grin.

"Diego said you're giving up this gig. Are you sure that's a good move? Who else will hire your ugly, dumb ass?"

When Logan flips him off, Carlos laughs. "He said not to tell anyone else yet but, gotta say, I'll miss you, man."

Carlos puts out his hand to shake, then pulls Logan into an impromptu hug. They've played a lot of chess and hung out over the years, but this is more than Logan expects. Further, he's surprised by the knot in his throat that such a large part of his life is coming to an end. Veronica's taken so much of his focus, he hasn't thought about that yet.

Carlos takes the wheel, accepting the page detailing course instructions that Logan hands over, then waits while Logan works on another note.

'Javier said there might be something missing from food stores. Have you noticed anyone going below deck?'

Carlos is discrete enough not to spread rumors, and spends as much time in the wheelhouse as Logan or Diego. Plus, it's all Logan can come up with to help Veronica on her case.

Handing him back the pad, Carlos shakes his head. "No, but people are on the deck all the time; I don't pay attention to where they're going. Does Diego know?"

Logan shakes his head and scratches out 'I'll tell him later'. What Carlos says makes sense; few people pay that much attention to those around them.

He leaves to go hunt up Veronica. When she doesn't answer the door to her room, he uses his master key to unlock it.

She's kept it neat; the bed is made and her lone suitcase sits on the floor, zipped up with nothing lying loose around. He picks up the bag and lays it on the bed, opening it so he can find the best place to put his letter.

As he's rifling through, he comes across the shorts she wore the night before. Logan searches the pocket and finds the picture she took from him. It's a little curved from her careless handling, but it can be straightened out if he pressed it between the pages of a book.

He studies the small boy who's both a stranger and a part of him. Given their poses, it's impossible to separate the image of his son from that of the man he calls 'Dad', or from Veronica. The picture is complete, with no room for anyone else to fit in. But for now it's the only connection he has, and Logan doesn't feel even a pang of guilt when he slips it into his own pocket.

Finding a light sundress on the bottom of the luggage, he slips the letter inside the skirt. It's almost evening and getting chilly; tomorrow they're pulling into port so she'll want to dress the part of an agent. There won't be any reason to remove the dress until she gets home and unpacks.

If they had the luxury of time, he'd find another way to make sure she knows the truth. Short of holding her hostage in some room, a possibility he might have considered a decade ago, he might not get another chance. At least this way, if they ever want them, she and Gai have answers.

He doesn't find Veronica in the mess, the kitchen, the engine room, or the heads. Finally, assuming she's doing more snooping, he enters the crew quarters through the second floor entrance and checks all the rooms. The men who're in their berths give him a puzzled glance when he pops his head in, but he doesn't care. He skips Diego's room, remembering how much his friend needed sleep. She wouldn't search his room with him in it, anyway.

_Or would she? Sure she would, but let's leave that for a last resort._

He heads below deck to the refrigerated storage. She's in the freezer, her hands buried in a body bag at the far end of the room. Despite the hoody she wears, her lips quiver from the cold.

"Veronica, what are you doing?"

She holds up the pad of paper next to her. "I'm creating a list of the personal effects on each body. I only have part of the crime scene photos – the ones I took myself. Petturi has most of them. Once I get my hands on his files, I can compare them to my list and see if anything else is missing."

"How long have you been in here?"

"Over an hour, including a break to warm up again. I'm almost done with the first row."

She sits back on her haunches, zips up the bag she was working and scoots toward the next one. Her hands shake and she has trouble working the zipper.

"Come on, Mars. Give yourself a chance to warm up and you can get Petturi to help you do the rest."

"I told you. I don't want to bring him in yet."

_Stubborn._ "Then how are you going to get his files?"

Her snort is expressive, and she doesn't bother hiding the eye roll. Any other day, any other mood, and it would make him laugh. Instead he groans, annoyed.

"Fine. Then I'm going to help you, but not until your lips are less new-wave."

A flash of annoyance cross her face, and he remembers how Veronica always hated being told what to do. If it weren't freezing she'd probably argue, but instead settles for giving him an exasperated sigh.

"I don't need your help, but I will take that green coat of yours."

_Of course she took stock when she tossed my room. Good thing I keep all my porn in my head._

"Only if you promise to stay out of here for at least a half hour and drink a cup of coffee. Javier always keeps a pot going in the kitchen."

She follows him out, locking up the freezer herself once they're in the hallway. Her shivers increase when she hits the warmer air.

Logan stuffs his hands in his back pockets, to keep them from rubbing up and down her arms. Her brow furrows as she takes in the posture, and he wonders at it.

"Did you think of anything?" she asks, all business.

The last few hours he's thought exclusively about what he wanted to put in her letter; he has to remember the lists she requested. "A few things. I'll meet you in my room and we'll go over them." Seeing her jaw tighten, he tacks on, "If that's okay."

With a terse nod she heads for the stairs. Courtesy would dictate she offer to fetch him a cup of coffee while she's getting one for herself. It's possibly the cause of her hesitation when they reach the main deck, but she swallows whatever makes her pause and turns her back on him.

Chuck is walking toward them, a suggestive leer on his face. "Well, well. What were you two doing? Sneaking away for a little action?"

Veronica stops and Logan tenses, stepping forward so he's right by her side, ready to step front of her. Chuck might be the kind of guy to hit a woman if she smarts off.

She doesn't retaliate, or tell Chuck he's an idiot - just gives a casual shrug. "Doing a little follow up with our other passengers."

"Huh?" Chuck's confusion would be comical if it weren't so predictable. "What other passengers?"

Veronica turned so both she and Chuck are in profile to Logan, and her lips press together before she forces them into a disingenuous smile. "The ones you helped move into cold storage. You might remember them. A bunch of rich people whose pleasure cruise ended with them in body bags?"

"Yeah, I knew what you meant," Chuck says in a way that conveys how much he didn't. "What do you mean follow up?"

Veronica tilts her head and chews her lower lip as she studies Chuck. Her smile resurfaces, this time barely tipping up the corner of her mouth. "Just checking to make sure everything is as it should be."

Chuck squints at her like she's insane. "Ok...what do you think, they're throwing a party down there?"

Her expression brightens, and her braying borders on shrill. "Wow, I hope not. That would be super creepy. Can you imagine? No, just making sure the temperature is right."

Logan's confounded by this mercurial mood change, and even more so when she reaches out and pats Chuck's arm. But Chuck seems even more flummoxed as his questioning gaze moves from Veronica to her hand, and he nods.

"Whatever, doll," Chuck mutters and walks away. He ignores Logan, looking back at Veronica one more time as if she's an enigma; it's the first time Logan has ever felt anything close to kinship with the man. He can't ask her about it though, as they're out in the open and he's still committed to being mute until they leave L.A..

It's an interminable five minute wait in his room until Veronica enters without knocking, clutching a mug in her hands like she still needs to warm them up.

"What the hell was that with Chuck?" he demands the moment the door is closed. He's leaning against the wall to the left of her, and notes the way she whirls to face him when his voice startles her.

Veronica doesn't laugh, or anything else to acknowledge the inadvertent scare. She takes a deep breath and shrugs, indifferent to his harsh tone. "Just checking to see if it made him nervous to learn we were rooting around down there."

"That I got. I'm talking about the fawning act at the end."

She steps backward until she reaches his bunk, remaining directly opposite of him. "I may need to interrogate these guys later. He'll be a lot more cooperative if he's not holding my hostility last night against me. It was a necessary, and harmless, way to rebuild that bridge. I know his type."

Chuck's type is to take any smidge of female attention and assume it's an invitation for sex. She has a point, but it still seems out of character for her to use her feminine wiles like that.

_Don't rewrite history, dude. Are you going to pretend those short skirts she wore on some of her undercover assignments were a fashion statement?_

He decides to let it go. It's neither his place nor his business to question how she goes about her job, and he trusts she knows what she's doing. For the most part, she always did. He walks over to sit on the bed, shifting so they're facing each other.

She moves as well, stepping away and squatting down to sit on a crate in the middle of the floor, sipping her coffee while avoiding any of his personal effects. Knowing he's leaving the ship in a few days, he hasn't bothered to rehang any of Eva's pictures. They're stacked by Veronica's feet, the torn painting of the cottage on top. Her eyes drift toward it before looking up at him.

"What did you come up with?" she asks.

"Probably nothing." Lifting up a haunch, he reaches into his back pocket to dig out the things he'd written down earlier. When he moves, she suddenly straightens, causing her coffee to slosh over onto her hand. There's a t-shirt on his bed and he tosses it to her, waiting until she's cleaned up before giving her the list.

A little of her tension leaves when he holds the paper out to her, and she skims it before flitting her eyes back up at him.

"What do you mean the freezer was unlocked last night? I was standing there while Diego used his keys to open it."

"He faked it. He thought he was covering up for me." Logan knows that the admission may get Diego in a little trouble, but he wants to make this as easy for her as possible. Enough of this trip has been difficult.

Veronica sets the coffee cup on the floor by her feet and glares at him. "You cover for Javier, Diego covers for you. This is like working with Dick's frat years ago. You all lie to save each other's asses."

Logan leans forward, bringing himself a fraction closer to her. "If it helps, we all thought we were covering incompetence, not theft."

She tips toward him, a constricted smirk on her face that lacks humor. "It really doesn't. But if that comes back to bite you in the ass later it's your problem, not mine. Thankfully. Though now I'm sure they stole more than the ring."

"Ok. 'Splain."

"The bag being unzipped. I thought of that, too and figured it meant someone broke in the second night. But I remember you locking the freezer door the next morning. I was watching you pretty closely, after your freak out. If it was unlocked that night, someone went back during the day."

"And if there was more room to walk between the bodies this morning –"

"Our man went back again. The extra space was too deliberate to have it be like a cargo shift. Someone needed to get at the bodies in the middle."

They both realize they've moved closer in their enthusiasm over putting together the clues. She's the first to react, grabbing her coffee mug and standing up, moving back to lean against the door.

"So, double-oh Mars, what's next?" Logan stays where he is, his elbows resting on his knees.

_Crap. If we can't relax around each other soon, it'll be exhausting._

"Ideally? Ask around if anyone's been going below deck that shouldn't be. I can't do that without raising questions, though."

This he can do for her. Maybe it'll help to balance the scale, even slightly, against the betrayal he's perpetrated over the last couple of days. Better yet, remind her he can be a friend no matter what name she calls him.

Logan stands up, his back in protest against the posture he's been holding, too similar to the way he's sat in the wheelhouse for the past several hours. "I can," he offers. He reaches up, automatically catching his fingertips on the steel beam above his head - his usual ritual at the end of the day. It feels glorious, stretching the tight muscles around his spine. When he lets go everything is looser.

Her hand shoots up, hovering between them before the fingers curl into a fist and she tucks it into her pocket. "No. You don't need to do that."

_What was that? Trying to signal me to 'Stop', like a traffic cop? I thought she wanted my help?_

"I already started. I told Carlos that a couple of things went missing from food stores and he said he didn't notice anyone go down there. I can talk to Diego and Winston, too. Anybody else will get the rumors flying."

"Fine." She looks toward him, but her eyes don't meet his. "It's almost dinner time and I've been so busy today I haven't called home yet. Also, Chuck knows we were below deck together earlier. I'll wait to complete the inventory until most everyone's in bed. Our thief might get nervous if he thinks I'm snooping and I don't want our evidence going overboard."

"Should we really keep Petturi out of this? I'm feeling a little out of my element." He learned to trust Veronica's investigatory instincts a long time ago, but it feels wrong to do this without her rightful partner.

"Not yet." She takes a drink of her coffee, tipping her head back so the last drop of it can slide into her mouth. Empty now, she clutches it around the top, bouncing it against her thigh. "We've made a lot of progress on our own. You're going to talk to Diego and Winston. My hope is I can figure out the rest on my own."

Logan watches her eyes, looking for anything other than the Mars-in-charge there. But she's all about business, and he gives a sigh.

_You're hoping YOU can figure this out on your own. What happened to WE made a lot of progress?_

"I'm sure _you_ can, but why? Don't you trust Petturi?"

She presses the mug into her leg and shakes her head. "I don't think he's the thief, but he's annoying. It'll go faster, too, if I'm not trying to work within the lines of red tape."

_You think you've cornered the market on being a rebel? Half the men here fall into this line of work because they don't play well with polite society._

"One problem. Your perp's made repeated trips to the freezer. If he comes again while you're in there, things could get dicey."

"What are you suggesting?"

"Me. I stand watch outside, help you with the inventory. Whatever."

"Not help me," she answers quickly. Too quickly. "Keeping watch is probably a good idea."

Logan studies her, noticing how her shoulders are square and her posture stiff. He mentally takes a step back. Laying out every nuance of her body language like a dot in a Seurat painting, they form an unsettling picture.

He purposely shuffles a few steps closer, testing a theory. She takes a quick breath and shifts her weight from one foot to the other, throwing an indirect glance at the door next to her before looking up at him. The small twitch of a smile is forced and nervous.

Before, in the wheelhouse, she'd stood as far from him as possible. Since they got in this room she's made sure he's at least an arm's length away. She'd held her hand up when she thought he was moving closer to her, not because she didn't like him questioning the crew. Her position at the door is a strategy for escape, if needed.

_Wise up, dummy. She can barely stand being in the same room with you – her skin practically crawls when you breathe in her direction. In her eyes you're no better than Chuck._

Every ounce of remaining energy leaves him, and he steps back to sit down on the bunk. He'd be better off curling up to sleep until they dock in LA, rather than help her. Either way she'll get off the ship and he'll go home, never to hear from her again.

"Besides we've set a precedent. Keeping it makes things seem normal."

"What?" He's lost all thread of the conversation.

Veronica's face darkens before being replaced with her earlier, bored resignation, and Logan knows he's right; there won't be a second of honesty between them.

"We've spent a lot of time together the past few days. If that changes it might draw questions," she explains.

"Okay." He looks away from her, his head shaking in contrast to his words. "Okay. I'll talk to Diego and Winston and meet you in the freezer at ten." It's a dismissal, made clear by the chill in his voice, but he needs her to leave. It's bad enough feeling defeated without her standing in front of him.

Her eyes narrow, hinting that she caught his change in demeanor and, again, only Veronica Mars would take that moment to ask more of him. True to form, this woman.

"Do you have a key to Petturi's room? I need to borrow the memory card with the pictures from the yacht. I wanted to get in while he's at dinner and he keeps the door locked."

Logan slides the key off his ring and holds it out to her. He pinches the tip between his fingers so she can be sure not to make any contact with him, as they did before. Now neither of them wants that. Her eyes lock with his as she takes the three steps to reach him and pull it from his grasp. He doesn't move until she's out the door.

Once Veronica's gone he pulls off his ball cap and drops it to the bed beside him. He leans as far forward as he's able, threads his fingers into his hair and clutches his scalp. It takes fifteen deep breaths to dislodge the weight that's pressed itself against his chest, and another twenty-seven until he can find the strength to stand up.

His eyes wander to the bag with his phone, the need to talk to Eva stronger than it's ever been. Her comfort and counsel would be welcome, and he has an acute desire to just hear her voice. She told him to call her after L.A., but she's probably anxious, waiting to hear what happened.

The problem lies in what he'll say. Everything with Veronica, including their kiss last night, will be hard enough. That's not something your lover deserves to hear over the phone, when they can't give you the full force of their anger. The bigger concern, though, is how she'll feel finding out he has a son, alive and healthy, when she lost both of hers. No way is he leaving her alone for several days to deal with that.

Pushing aside the fatigue and loneliness that wants to pull him down on the mattress, he stands and scoops his hat off the bed. In a moment of petulance, he kicks the crate back under his bed and walks to the door. Dinner starts in less than an hour and he has a couple of men to talk to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you to everyone who bookmarked, favorited, followed or especially reviewed. Little fact - I've been known to go back and read your comments whenever I need motivation for writing. Knowing you're enjoying the lights a fire under me. The good kind.
> 
> A/N: Nevertothethird, I'm laying all responsibility for the Saturn scene on you. You know this is what happens when you give me a prompt.


	8. There's No Just

Logan had promised Veronica he’d talk to Diego and Winston, and find out if they saw anything suspicious the last couple of nights.  From his station on bow watch, Winston could’ve seen if anyone lurked around the deck.  Diego is a possibility, but the enclosed wheel house means only luck or the loudest noise would draw his attention backward. 

He doesn’t have to decide which one to approach first – the advantage of a ship is he’s bound to run into both of them if he wanders around. 

Winston is at the bow with beatific smile, oddly fitting on the wide, round face of the fortyish blond man. Together they watch a pod of dolphins race alongside the ship.  The porpoises seem to like their game of Mammal Against Machine, given they do it so often.

Fortunately, as intellectually challenged as Winston is, he’s never had a problem reading. He’s a sweet, gullible guy who requires a straightforward approach or he gets confused; mostly he lacks the ability to think anything through.  At the moment this works to Logan’s advantage, since he knows Winston won’t wonder _why_ he’s asking questions.

 ‘Have you seen anyone going down to the cold storage rooms in the past few days?’ he writes.

Winston reads slowly, his eyes going back to the beginning for a second go, then shrugs his shoulders. “We put all those bodies down there a few days ago.”

Logan takes the paper back, rests it on his thigh, and scribbles, ‘How about since then?’

“You and that pretty blond lady.”

_Thank you, Winston, for letting me know where I’ve been,_ Logan can only think with wry humor.  It’s rare he’s able to feel any impatience toward this man.

‘Anyone else?’

“Yeah, but I don’t know who it was.  It was too dark to see him.”

Trying to keep his hand moving slow enough that the text is still legible, Logan scrawls, ‘When?’

“Yesterday morning, maybe around 3am?”

‘Is that it?’

Winston pauses, and focuses on using his tongue to extricate something out of his back teeth before he answers.  “I think so.”

‘Have you been below deck since we loaded the bodies?’

Winston’s face pales and he shakes his head. “No. I don’t like dead people. ” His eyes widen as a new thought crosses his mind.  “I don’t have to help unload them, do I?”

‘I’ll talk to Diego and make sure you can sit this one out.’

“Thanks, Monk.” Winston hangs his head, and Logan reaches for his pencil again.  He knows how much pride Winston takes in being a hard worker, and that he’s already embarrassed nobody trusts him in the engine room.

‘You can make it up by removing the plastic and cleaning the freezer after all the bodies are gone, ok?’

A large smile is his payment.  Logan walks with Winston to join the rest of the crew for dinner, half-listening to his prattle about the dolphins they just saw. He has the enthusiasm and wonder of a five-year-old, which is alternately sweet and cloying in a grown man.

As he passes Javier, the cook pulls him to the side.  With a wink he flashes a set of keys.  The keys that have been missing for the past three days.  Logan rolls his head on his shoulders and mouths, “Where?”

“In the freezer.” Javier whispers back, laughing.  “I swear I checked there like three times, but today they were sitting on the bottom, like they’ve been there all along.”

_So whoever’s been playing grave robber, they aren’t planning on going back._

Keeping watch won’t be necessary and Veronica doesn’t want his help during her inventory, so there’s nothing for Logan to do.  With a slap on Javier’s back and a warning finger in his face, he moves to grab a plate. 

Tonight’s meal is simple, a taco bar that even Javier can’t screw up. Petturi is already dished up and being his usual friendly self, sitting at a table with Chuck, Diego, and Vincente.  He chimes in with eager questions while the seamen talk about salmon fishing.

Logan fills up his own plate and follows Winston to sit at the same table, taking the last two seats.  He wants to make sure if Veronica comes in while he’s eating, he won’t end up sitting with her.  Her anger he can handle, but he doesn’t want to see her flinch again when he reaches for the salt shaker.

Petturi frowns, “But Chuck, I thought salmon were dying out?  My dad used to take fishing trips to Oregon every year, but stopped because of all the restrictions.  They had to limit your catch due to overfishing and all the flood prevention measures that messed with their habitats.”

Vincente laughs.  “It’s the U.S. way.  They screw with everything; try and control every facet of the world until they destroy it.”

“Didn’t you do any fishing when you were in Chile, man?  The chinook practically jump into your boat,” Diego answers.

“I didn’t really have time.  What did you mean, Vince, when you said that about Americans?” Petturi asks.

_Oh fuck, now you’ve done it._

Standing up and throwing down his napkin, Diego leans threateningly toward Petturi.  “You… weon arrogante! You just proved his fucking point.  One, you gringos don’t own the Americas.  South America doesn’t want to be lumped in with your pasty asses.  Dos, you fuckers are always trying to change things to fit your rules.  His name is _Vincente_ , not Vince, and salmon were meant to live free.  Not bred and raised in hatcheries until they forget they’re even fish.”

“Yeah, you bastards even had to mess with futbol, giving the name to a different game just to make yourselves feel special,” Vincente snarls.

Chuck’s bluster had him pointing a finger at Vincente.  “As a diehard Packers fan, I’m warning you now to shut the fuck up.”

Petturi has the laugh of a politician; one of appeasement.  “I came to appreciate soccer—futbol,” he amends, raising his hands when Diego opens his mouth, “while I was living in Chile.  But I was raised to worship at the NFL altar on Sundays and...”

Logan stops listening; he’s heard a variation of this conversation too many times for it to hold much interest.  Whenever you get two men on this boat from different countries, the yardsticks come out. Petturi’s too stupid to realize he just started a three hour pissing contest between Chile and the U.S.

The only advantage is that it distracts anyone from noticing Veronica’s absence.  A good thing, since she’s breaking into Petturi’s room to borrow the memory card with the crime scene photos, rip it, and return it.

Veronica enters the mess about fifteen minutes later as their table is getting cleared for a game of poker.  When Diego joins in, Logan knows he won’t have an opportunity to talk to his boss for a few hours. Really, he’s glad.  Any interest in Veronica’s stupid case is seriously waning.  Who cares if a few baubles went missing? 

He waves off the invitations to join the group at poker, and nobody pushes.  They’re used to him disappearing after dinner.  Veronica’s eyes meet his as he rises from the table.  It’s a silent query, asking if they’re still on for the ten o’clock meet.  Logan gives a slow blink, answering her. 

He’ll help her, of course he’ll help her, regardless if he wants to anymore.

Tonight Logan skips the sunset.  He doesn’t want memories or time to think.  What he needs is to be alone, and sleep.

* * *

“Wake up, idiot.” 

A voice pulls Logan out of the first decent rest he’s had in days. He’s not sure it’s real until a blinding light burns his eyes.  Something light hits his chest with a rustling sound _._

After a few blinks, the watch on his wrist comes into focus; he’s barely been asleep an hour.  Turning his head in the direction the voice came from, he sees Veronica standing in front of his closed door. 

Swinging his legs to hang off the bed, a few pieces of paper fall to the floor. The blacked name **Gorya Sorokin** taunts him, as it has for more than a third of his life.

Logan’s hands, it turns out, are the exact length of his face.  They hide him as he tries to make sense of what’s happening.  He always woke up hard.

When he looks up Veronica is glaring at him.  Her arms are crossed on her chest, her face is flushed and her eyes spark.  He’s reminded of all the other times she stood in front of him, accusations waiting to be thrown.  This is the reunion he expected the first night he saw her, and he wishes they knew how to do it easy.  But nothing was ever easy between them.

Veronica steps forward to drop to her knees and pull out the crate of books he kicked under his bed earlier.

“Get down here. Sit.”  She points to the crate and disappears under his bed again; only her feet sticking out like those of The Wicked Witch of the East.  He doesn’t have the energy to buck her command, so he slides off the bunk and onto the crate. 

Veronica emerges dragging a box that lives in the recess under his bed, one he adds to every Christmas or so.  The crew thinks it’s hilarious to gift him with personal grooming supplies.  By now he has a large collection of unopened scissors, electric razors, beard trimmers, and haircut kits.  He’s saved them all, to regift when there’s enough for everyone on the ship. 

_You didn’t miss anything in here last night, did you?_

She grabs his towel and drapes it around his shoulders, orders “hold this”, and kneels down to rummage through his supplies.  

Setting aside scissors and a comb, she unwinds the cord to a set of clippers and plugs them into the only outlet in the room, then does the same with a beard trimmer.

It’s only when she’s standing behind him, and locks of his scraggly hair litter the floor, that Logan realizes he hasn’t agreed to this.  Given her current mood, he might have fare better with Sweeney Todd as his barber.

“Veronica, what are you doing?”

“I can’t talk to you when you look like Jerry Garcia,” she snaps.

“What do you want to talk about?”  Admittedly, petulance might not be the best way to go, but she’s the one that woke him up.

 She tugs harshly on a lank of hair, and it loosens with the sound of a _snip._ “Oh, I don’t know. A couple topics come to mind.”

 “The weather? It’s supposed to be clear tomorrow.”

“Let start with why your trail led to a corpse in Paraguay, but you’re alive on this damned boat.”  Her words are casual, laid back even.  But the terse sound underlying each one makes him question why he’s sitting there while she holds a wicked pair of scissors close to his neck. It might be time to knock off the snotty attitude.

“I think I can explain that.  Let me up?”  Veronica steps back and he goes to the built-in dresser.  The flask he picked up from the deck the night before is in the top drawer.  Logan drops it into her hand and resumes his seat on the crate.

“I gave that to a guy, Jack, that I was partying with in Europe. We hung out together for a while, and it was a running joke that we looked like brothers.  The flask was meant to be a parting gift. I left a wide trail through Europe and decided it was time to,” he swallows the word _die_ , “disappear.  I think Jack followed me while I was still in Athens, maybe hoping I’d pick up the bar tabs again. ”

Veronica turns the flask over in her hands, inspecting it like the thing is covered with answers written in holographic ink.  “But how did he get your passport, your credit cards, and other stuff?  The keychain.”

“When I left, I threw them all away.   I dropped the bag in a trash can outside my apartment. He must have gone through it.  It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Veronica blinks slow and swallows. “He stole your identity, and came to South America to keep the party going on your dime.  And ended up dead.”

“Gory found him.”

“Probably.”  She shrugs. “Or Jack pissed off somebody else.  Not sure I really care.” 

His memories of Jack are vague and alcohol infused.  The guy was handy to have around in Europe. Logan paid the bills, and Jack brought people to his bar table or hotel room to make a lot of noise.  Noise that kept him from thinking too much.

Jack was a fun guy, but not a friend.  He was an opportunistic user who would’ve split the moment Logan’s bank account bottomed out. And, though he had spared a few seconds mulling it over since the night before, Logan couldn’t remember the guy’s last name.  If he ever knew it.  Chances were ‘Jack’ wasn’t even his real first name.

“I don’t care either. Whoever he was, he gets to die as Logan Echolls, so that makes things easier.  At least I’ll know no one is looking for me anymore.”

Veronica steps behind him and threads her fingers into his hair, snipping at the locks she separated.  “He doesn’t have your name.  He’s a John Doe.”

“But didn’t you report what you found to the police in Paraguay?”  Her silence is its own answer, but Logan still prods, “Veronica?” 

“No, I didn’t.  I planned to notify the authorities after I spoke to Trina.  But first I wanted to tell Gai the truth, my way.  I didn’t want that to be the first thing he ever heard about you.”

Her instincts are probably right.  Logan hadn’t been in the news since he left Neptune.  Once Trina knew she’d make a spectacle of herself and use his pathetic death to reap another fifteen seconds of fame.  Nobody else would really care; his end would be the period after a long sentence about his parents’ fall from Hollywood grace.

Maybe that’s another reason he and Veronica ended up on this ship together -- so she could give Gai a better version of that fucked-up tale.  A tale she could’ve long ago sullied by telling their son all kinds of awful truths about him.  Even withholding his name until now was a kindness, given what one internet search could turn up.

Logan closes his eyes, concentrating on the feel of his hair being shuffled and the steady _snip, snip_ sound. The rhythm provides a calming effect he desperately needs right now.

“But you’ll still report me dead, right? It’d be easiest for everyone if that’s the official story.”

“I don’t know.  I’m still trying to wrap my head around what _did_ happen.”

“Did you read my letter?”  _No. She was just testing its aerodynamic quality by throwing it at you._

“You could have told me about Domonick Desante’s visit.” The next lock she grabs, she pulls extra hard, and Logan hisses.

“How do you know the guy’s name?” 

She stands back to view her handiwork then moves in a little closer. Eva occasionally trims his hair when it gets snarly, but it’s been more than a decade since Logan’s gotten a real haircut.  He forgot how intimate the process can be.

The red t-shirt and jeans she changed into aren’t revealing, but they skim her curves closely.  She must have showered before she changed because she smells distinctly of vanilla, whether from a shampoo or body wash, he’s not sure.   When she bends down to brush some strands off his shoulders and back, the scent intensifies.  He can see the hair clustered at her ponytail holder is damp, so he knows it’s her shampoo. 

This is the closest she’s gotten to him since their aborted kiss, and the first time she’s willingly touched him today.  It still stings, the way she cringed earlier at any possible contact between them.  He keeps still, not wanting a replay of that. 

“The cast, and the way you described him.  Gory broke his arm when he realized Domonick was the one who sold him out for that video of me and Piz.”

“His information seemed solid.” Logan leans forward, his fist clutching the towel over his shoulders a little tighter. “I decided I’d rather you hate me than avenge me.  Leaving was the best option.”

She steps back to glare down at him.  “But it wasn’t -- we should have gone to the feds.  Or my dad and I could have found something on the Sorokins and exchanged it for your safety.”

Logan shakes his head.  “Too many variables for something to go wrong. I did what I had to, and I’ll do it again, if needed.”

If he thought she was angry before, he seriously underestimated her.  That was mild annoyance compared to the flush that climbs Veronica’s neck; her knuckles turn white as she squeezes the scissors and comb she holds in one hand.   “It’s that easy for you.  Did you ever, even once, think about what was going on back home?  Or did you just not care once you left?”

Now it’s Logan’s turn to be pissed. He lets go of the towel and stands up, dislodging enough strands to weave into the hair shirt she wants him to wear.  “Of course I cared.  Do you have any idea how many times I’ve thought about you?”

“And what did you do about it?  Nothing!  Not a phone call, a letter, or even a freakin’ email.  Which is a classic overreaction on your part.  Do you really think Gory gave you another thought after you left Hearst?” She crosses her arms and the tines of the comb press into her bicep so deeply, they leave a mark.

Logan squats down to the stack of Eva’s drawings; under them is the postcard that clued Veronica in the night before.  He rises and thrusts it under her nose, picture side up, so close she bats his hand away in annoyance.

“Those are nesting dolls, Veronica. _Russian_ nesting dolls.  I got that when I was lying in a hospital room in Greece, more than a year after I left.  It was that guy Domonick’s warning that I’d stayed in one place too long. Hell yes, Gory still cared.”  He throws the card to the side, and it makes a small _thwack_ as it hits the wall.

It’s almost palpable, the measure of anger that leaches out as her defensive carriage wilts. Tears fill her eyes while she focuses on a point above his head, doing whatever she does with new information.  But she blinks them back.  Oddly, her reaction gives him hope.  In her world every story has a villain and a victim, and this is the first sign she sees him as the latter.

“What about after that? Did you ever, I don’t know, try to find out what happened to – to anybody?”

“Once.” That bleak fucking day has never left him.  He’d been missing Veronica, and even Dick, like crazy, so ventured to do a little recon on his laptop.

“Veronica, I worked hard at getting sober and building some semblance of a life for myself.  The closest I ever came to falling off the wagon was about four years after I left.  I thought I could handle it, you know.  Close some doors left open in my head.  I started with Hearst, and found your name among the list of graduates the year before. Mac, Wallace, Parker, even Dick all graduated on time.”

“And that bothered you?” The confusion in her drawn brow softens him, bringing out a sardonic smile as he nods his head. He reaches up a hand, running it through his shortened locks. 

“Yeah, more than it should.  I was proud of you, but felt left out. Then I searched Gory’s name, hoping to see the asshole was dead or in prison.  I found something else.”

She shakes her head, forehead still scrunched up.  Apparently she hadn’t kept tabs on Gory after he left Neptune.

“Gory was a senior when we were freshmen.  After graduation he went home to Boston, and became a full-fledged mobster.  He pulled some really bad shit, but nothing stuck.  The worst was in July, 2010.”  His lips press together, remembering the graphic photos leaked online.

“What, Logan?”

“Ran into his ex-girlfriend. He hadn’t seen her in two years, but beat her to death in front of seven witnesses. Got off on a technicality – because of a bribe or threat, probably.  He’s not only a sociopath, he’s fucking untouchable and doesn’t let anything go. I couldn’t risk coming home or contacting you. Not even email was safe. What if he found out?”

She scoffs, “And how, exactly, would he do that?”

“How do you? If someone looks hard enough they’ll find something, and Domonick warned me they’d be looking. I couldn’t risk him using you to get to me. Or getting myself killed in some way that tipped you off it was Gory. Would you have let it go if that happened?”

She tries so hard to keep her face straight, but he can see when she finds the answer within herself.  Veronica may have been furious at him, even hated him sometimes, but they both know it wouldn’t have kept her from going after Gory.

 “So that’s it?  That was nine years ago, Logan.”

“Why would I look again? So I could see your wedding announcement? Or, better yet, some article where you got hurt on a case and I couldn’t do a fucking thing about it?”  When she crosses her arms and moves back a step, Logan smooths the bitterness out of his voice.  It’s not her fault he left.

“It took everything I had to get sober, and stay that way.  The doctor in Greece made it pretty clear if I didn’t, I might as well buy a burial plot.  But that day, I came _really_ close to taking a drink.  Reading about you guys going on with your lives, and Gory—.”  He clears the lump out of his throat and shakes his head. Gory isn’t the point.

“It was either get busy living or get busy dying.  I had to try and put it all behind me.  Can you understand that?” 

God, his mood was bleak that night.  He came home from the bar and holed himself up in his room, ignoring Eva when she called him to dinner.  He finally dropped off to sleep, then woke up to find her in his bed for the first time. 

Contrary to what Keith Mars thought he saw, Logan remained celibate long after leaving Veronica.  He tried a few times, but couldn’t stand the feel of another woman under him.  Even the most benign kiss felt like a betrayal.

But Eva’s long-armed, sturdy embrace made him feel cared for in a way he hadn’t experienced since he was a child, back when his mother still tried to protect him.  Even more, he could feel how much she needed him.  In the beginning, their lovemaking was as much comfort as it was ardor.

_She saved me, in every way a person can be saved._

_Does this mean you’re going to change your name to Dawson, next?_

_(Sigh) It means Chuck’s played ‘Titanic’ too many times on movie nights._

“Yeah. You just,” another step back puts Veronica flush with the wall, and her head tips to bump against it, dislodging a tear that rolls down her cheek.  “You missed so much, especially with—.”  The name of their son hovers between them, though it’s caught in her throat. 

Logan could never watch her cry without wanting to hold her.  The next step he takes toward her is tentative, breaching.  “I didn’t know.”

More tears follow the first, the seal broken.  Her chin quivers, at odds with the glare she gives him. “It doesn’t matter.  That doesn’t make it better. I’m so mad at you.”

“I’m mad at me, too.” Another step brings him right in front of her and he tenses, wondering if he’s gone so far she’ll push him away, or bolt out of the room.  But her anguish draws him in.

Her shoulders pull back against the wall, as far from him as possible.  The convulsing of her chest is followed by sobs as she breaks down. When her palms lift toward him, he braces for the shove. Instead though, she clutches at his chest, scrunches his t-shirt in her fists and yanks on it to pull him closer.

He could almost laugh, her earlier antics now in a new light.  Every time she moved away from him, or flinched when he got close, was about avoiding this.  She needed to feel he was real and tangible, but couldn’t let go of her anger long enough to allow it.  Until now.

The arms that wrap around his waist are small, but strong. She fits into him the way she always did; the perfect height to rest his cheek on the top of her head while hugging her back. Her grip tightens to pull him as close as possible and he returns the ferocity, spreading his hands flat upon her back.

Her muffled, “I missed you, dammit,” is spoken into his shirt with a choked voice.

Logan closes his eyes against the rightness that washes over him.  Eva grew up in a small town, in central Chile.  The first time they went together to visit her parents, he remarked on how happy, almost giddy, she seemed as they walked down the main street.

She turned to him and smiled.  “Never I will live here again.  But still, it always is home.”  

At the time he couldn’t correlate that his homes in L.A. or Neptune. There he survived in houses full of fear; his childhood and adolescent memories rife with abuse, loss, betrayal and pain. 

But now, his mistake is obvious.  His first real home wasn’t a place.  It was this small, fierce woman who has her arms wrapped around his waist as if she can hold him up, like she did so many times before. She’s the keeper of his best memories, the best of himself, before he made his own way into the world.

He’d been so stupid.  Holding Veronica in his arms, thoughts from the past few days fall into place, bringing clarity that is swift and thorough.  His turmoil over the two women was because he couldn’t see a way to let Veronica go, without losing all sense of this, too.  But now, he can finally separate loving her from being _in love_ with her.

“I missed you, too,” he whispers into her hair.

The hands at his back clench, and pull his shirt tighter against him.  “I need—.  I needed you.  So many times.”  The hiccupping sob that comes out of her vibrates through his chest, flush with hers.  “You were never there.”

“I wanted to be, and I needed you, too.” 

It’s a mercy that she’s the first to step back, since Logan isn’t sure he can.  His ratty t-shirt absorbed most of her tears, but he lifts his thumbs to her cheeks and wipes away the rest.  Her hands rise to his face to do the same.

Done, her damp hands grab his, lowering to hang between them.  Her gaze falls, concentrating on the space between them instead of his face.  “I’m still mad.  But I’m glad you’re okay.”  Her head lifts, sincerity flooding her eyes.  “I’m glad you’re alive.”

“So you can kill me yourself?” When she snickers at him, he lets out a small chuckle.  “I meant what I said in the letter – any ‘next’ is up to you.”

“Sit down.  I want to finish your haircut now that I have something I can work with.” 

There’s no reassurances from her that there’ll be a ‘next’ but, as much as he wants that, he can’t really blame her.  She’s got a lot to figure out, and not by herself, either.

His head feels about three pounds lighter and, before he returns to the crate, Logan puts his hands up to take another feel. All the coarse, damaged hair is gone, leaving only a few inches that are sleek to the touch.  It makes sense since he wears a ball cap all the time; the bits closest to his scalp aren’t exposed to the elements, except when he surfs.

Veronica circles around him, running her fingers through the strands to make them stand on end.  Finally ending in front of him again, her smile is closemouthed, and reassuring.  “I’m not bad at this. Gai was terrified of the barber when he was little so I learned how to do it at home.” She studies his head, grasps some locks and lifts them up for perusal.  “What do you want?”

He wants to ask for more stories about their son -- any insight into their lives to keep with him after tomorrow.  But everything feels fragile, like pressing down on a half-frozen puddle early in the morning. 

“You probably remember me with short hair better than I do. You pick.”

She wets his hair with water from a bottle beside his bed, and the next half hour is quiet, the only sound coming from the scissors. Logan loses track of the number of times she loops him, moving in closer as she works at the cut and runs her fingers through it to test the evenness. The beard she leaves, after giving it a serious trim and thinning it to something more modern.  He’s actually glad of her decision; he’s not ready to leave Malachy behind yet.

When she steps back to get a more distant view, Veronica smirks and lifts the electric clippers, quickly running them over his eyebrows with a _zzzt, zzzt._ Logan laughs at the tickling sensation and pulls back. “Hey! Maybe I like bushy eyebrows.”

“Forget bushy.  Abe Vigoda would’ve been jealous of those suckers.”  She cocks her head and brings her own brows together, biting the corner of her lip in consternation.

“What’s the matter? You don’t like it?” Logan asks.  There’s no mirror in his room, so he can’t check for himself.

She shakes her head, kneeling down to unplug the clippers and wind up the cord.  “No, it’s a huge improvement, but I expected to see you again.”

“Who do you see, then?”

“You, mostly.  But did you ever read ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’?”

He laughs at the comparison. “Let me guess, I look like the portrait.”

She settles on the floor in front of him.  Her hand reaches out to slowly trace down the once-straight line of his nose, follow the crooked weal near his temple, and run her thumbs over the sun damaged skin around his eyes.

The entire time he sits still through her perusal, reveling in her cold touch against his skin.  Her tracing wears its own path and he can feel everywhere she’s been, even after she puts her hands down to hold his.  She’s willingly touched the worst parts of him, conveying a kind of acceptance he never expected to get from her again.

When their eyes finally meet, hers move back and forth searching for answers.  Her forehead bunches together with wrinkles of concern.

“Logan, what happened to you?”

He gives her a wry smile, wrenching his gaze from hers to their clasped hands, wondering if she knows just how much this means to him.  Once he hit his teens, she was the only one who ever touched him like this. 

By then his father reached for him only for show or to cause pain, his mother out of regret. Lilly, Kendall and other girls touched him mostly for sex, and guy friends were all about fist bumps and high fives. 

Before Lilly died, Veronica was platonically affectionate with him as a friend – pats on the back, occasionally rubbing his arm, grabbing at him when she wanted his attention.  Later, when they were together, those touches came back and then some.  She brushed him with her shoulder or her hip when they walked, weaved her fingers in his hair when they kissed, and held his hand whenever she wanted contact, or to give comfort.  It was one of the things he’d missed most whenever they were on the outs.

Eva is a toucher; not just with him but with everyone in her life.  To know Eva is to know the feel of her hand on your shoulder, squeezing your arm to emphasize a point when she’s talking, or a hug with every hello or goodbye.  It’s one of the things that drew him to her from the beginning. 

It's a tacky thing to do, comparing the touches from these two women who hold such different places in his life, but he can't help it. Veronica's hands are cold, and small. Eva's are warm, and large. Every touch from Veronica is done with thought while Eva's are practically unconscious.

But Veronica hadn't been giving him a lover's caress; it was the concerned touch of a friend. He's known her as both so it's easy to tell the difference.

_Ah Eva, what would you think about me, alone in my room with Veronica, holding hands?  I hope you can understand why I need this._

“The first couple of years were the roughest,” he starts, in answer to her question.  “I picked fights with anyone I could, kind of a pain distraction.”

“And now? Is that still how you deal with things?”  Letting go of his hands, she rises and takes a step back.

Logan can hear in her stilted voice how hard it is for Veronica to ask that question.  He’d like to think it’s because, despite everything, she still cares. “No. I haven’t had a fight in over eleven years. A drink, either.”

Veronica looks for the truth in his eyes and Logan meets her stare, giving it.  “Is Eva going to mind the haircut?”

She fiddles with her wedding ring, rolling the band around her finger with the base of her thumb.  Their two becomes four; both her husband and his lover join them in this room.  “I don’t know.  It was long when we got involved and she’s never asked me to cut it.” 

But Eva likes playing with his hair; she’ll pull his head into her lap and braid the strands into complicated patterns.   He often falls asleep that way and Logan has a twinge of guilt, wondering if she’ll be upset he let Veronica take the liberty.

It seems they’ll both have a lot of explaining to do when they get home.

Her mouth quirks as she rolls her eyes.  “I think that might have surprised me as much as anything. Can I ask why you decided Joaquin Phoenix was your hero?”

Logan gets down on his knees and does what he can with his hands and the cardboard backing of a notepad to clean up the hair.  “Ah, yeah. Well, do you remember that point when I drink and cross over from good-time-Logan into a whiney brat?”

“Whiney brat?  More like a tween dealing with a boy-band breakup.”

He chuckles; she has a point. His voice gets lower and he has a hard time looking her in the eye, refocusing his attention on moving his former mane into the garbage can she pulls closer.

“Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw the loser who couldn’t make anything but the wrong choices.  Plus I was hiding. Once I realized how different the beard and hair made me look, especially when added to the broken nose, I let it keep growing.”

Veronica grabs the postcard she used the night before and gets down to help him.  “It did make you look different. Though, if I didn’t already think you were dead, I might’ve figured it out sooner.”

“Yeah, I think you lost a bit of your edge.” 

She shoulder bumps him hard enough to knock Logan from his squat onto his ass.  The laugh they share is another, Lilliputian-sized step in healing the rift between them.  “Now who’s lost it? And maybe, if someone wasn’t playing Marcel Marceau, I would’ve recognized that garbled voice of yours. What’s up with the mute act?”

Logan remains sitting, watching as she dumps the last, large clump of hair into the garbage. The strays he’ll deal with later, or leave them for the next inhabitant of this room. “It started because my jaw was wired shut.” He gives Veronica a grin and shrug when she raises her eyebrows. “But it also made it easier for me to hide in plain sight.  Going Irish was a bad idea.  Can you imagine me pulling off that accent?”

Veronica inhales her lower lip and bites down on it before giving up and letting free a large smile. “Let me hear you try.”

In the span of an hour she’d gone from trying to incinerate him with her eyes, to kneeling on his floor with a huge grin on her face.  Logan couldn’t deny her anything. “I think we both be agreein’ the accents are better left to you, luv,” he attempts, sounding more like a native of Tennessee than one of Ireland.

Logan loses sight of her amused face when she falls forward.  Her brow lightly whacks the floorboards and her back spasms, the rumble of her laughter distorted as it’s trapped by the arms she wraps around her head.

He waits her out, his own amusement stretching out his cheeks and exposing his teeth.  Self-consciously reaching up to cover the smile, the shorter hair of his beard startles him.  He can’t help running his hand over his cheeks; the sharp ends of the bristles prickle his palm and fingers. 

Veronica straightens up, using her hands to wipe tears from her face and interspersing her speech with sporadic, low chuckles.  “Good call on the muteness. You never could have pulled that off.”

“No shit.”

The silence is comfortable as they both settle in. His feet are flat on the floor, knees bent with his elbows resting on top of them.  Veronica repositions to sit crossed legged in front of him, her calves almost close enough to cover his toes.  Her fingers twiddle together and the humor fades from her face. 

“Does anybody know?  I mean, do you ever talk?”

“To Eva, and occasionally her family.  They live several hours away from us so I don’t have to worry about anyone on the ship finding out.”

“No one else, though?”

“Diego now, but that all came out last night before… well, before I found you in here.  He asked me to keep quiet until this trip is done.” 

“How much did you tell Eva?  I mean, about you.” 

Logan can see it, the same curiosity he has about her life.  He wonders if this is what happens at high school reunions, clusters of former sweethearts trying to cadge pieces of _now_ to match against their memories of _then_. 

“Everything.  We don’t have secrets.  At least, we won’t once I tell her about Gai,” he pauses, before adding, “and last night.  Some conversations shouldn’t happen over the phone.” 

Veronica frowns, squeezing her eyes shut and taking a large breath. “That kiss. It wasn’t… I was…”

_I’m pretty sure it wasn’t about wanting me, or even Malachy.  You were sad and upset, and let’s not forget, drunk._

Veronica eyes fall to the tattoo on his arm, and a worried expression clouds her face.  “Logan, with what you said in the kitchen last night and what happened after, I want to make it clear where we stand.  In case we do see each other again.”

By his count, in the history of their relationship he’s told her they were over two times to her three. Actually four, if you count everything she said to him – Malachy -- the night before.  For a lot of reasons, it’s his turn.

“I think I know what that kiss was, and what it wasn’t.  But it brought down this whole house of cards, so I’m calling it good.” Logan rests his forehead on his arms and takes a deep breath, for fortitude. “And I may have figured a few things out since last night.”

“Things. What kind of things?”

“About those ‘what if’s’,” he says, referring to their conversation in the kitchen.

She tilts her head and her eyes narrow, the anger from earlier poking up its little red head.  “What if you told me the truth, back when everything first happened?  What if you asked me to come with you?”

“Those, and what if I’d never attacked Gory?”   That had been the frontrunner for all these years.  Clean, easy.

“So? Those are the obvious questions.”

“They are.  Can you think of any others?”

_Say no.  Please say no so we have a chance of making it out of this room without you hating me._

Veronica closes her eyes as she thinks, then shakes her head.  “No.  That pretty much covers it,” she sighs.

It shouldn’t hurt; it’s the right answer for everyone involved.  But if this wasn’t at least a little painful Logan would have to wonder what they really had all those years ago.

“Well, I think that says something.”

“You’re getting cryptic in your old age. I should have expected it when I saw those three gray hairs.”

Logan’s lips twitch, but she wasn’t trying to be funny.  The wisecrack is her way of telling him to get to the point. 

“Veronica, all those questions are about rewriting the past.  None of them are about changing how things are with us now.”

“You’re talking about Eva.”

He was.  His mind hadn’t been idle since stopping that kiss with Veronica last night.  Knowing the fire was still between them led to testing out a few fantasies of how they could be together in this reality.  But each one felt wrong, and involved letting go of Eva, something he couldn’t consider without his gut dropping into his shoes.  It went back to playing tic-tac-toe by yourself.  Like Joshua learned in ‘Wargames’, all scenarios resulted in everyone losing.  The only way to win was not to play.

His hands run through his hair before resting on the back of his neck and pulling his head down as he talks.  “I’m talking about all of us.  I meant what I said last night, that I love you.  Probably have since we were about fourteen.  When we were friends and everything was so much easier.  Remember?”

“I’m seriously getting the ‘just friends’ talk.  From you.”

Her wry tone pulls his head up.  He can feel the smirk that settles on his face, acknowledging the absurdity.  “There’s no _just_ anything between us.  I don’t think a word exists for what we are.”

She smiles, a “Hmphh,” of agreement behind her closed lips. “Friends will have to do, then.”

Leaning forward, her elbows rest on top of her knees, creating a shelf of hands upon which to rest her chin.  From this position their faces are less than a foot apart.   She’d done the same thing when they were kids, and squared off over staring contests.  The period while she scrutinizes him feels longer than it is, likely because he’s waiting for her to channel their course.

“Logan, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“I wondered why you’re quitting this job. You’ve been doing it a long time.”  The question is casual, but everything from her squared shoulders to tight jaw screams tension.

“I’m sick of it, and want to be home with Eva.  Figure out a better way to spend my time.”  When she stays stiff he reaches out his fingers to tug on the pinky bent against her cheek.  “I meant what I said in that letter.  I’m not disappearing again.  Not from you.  Not from Gai.”

Veronica nods like it doesn’t matter, but her shoulders ease down.

It’s Logan’s turn and there’s one thing nagging him since last night.  “Veronica, can I ask you—“ seeing the wary look that crosses her face changes his mind.  That half-frozen puddle is still under his foot, and probing about what kind of father Sam is could break right through it.    “How’s your dad?”

Her sigh might be one of relief.  Their fingers unlock and Veronica scoots back until she reaches the wall.  Logan does the same, his back and legs singing an aria in ‘thank you’ for the position change, though he hates the distance reestablished between them.

“Great, actually.” Her grin is a little more relaxed now that they’re on a safe topic.    “Still doing the P.I. thing, though he has a younger partner to handle the bail jumpers. He tracks ‘em, Buford tags ‘em.”

“Buford?  Seriously?”

“Tom Justice.  Signs it T. Justice.  The nickname was inevitable.”

His laugh might be more than is warranted, but _damn_ just getting to sit and talk with her.  Share a joke.  He’s not certain how long it’ll be until they can have this again, so he’s going to enjoy it.

“What about Dick?  Have you kept track of him?”

“More than I wanted to.”  She huffs and rolls her eyes.  “It hit him hard when you threw him out after forwarding that video of me and Piz.  Then he found out you’d left, and I was pregnant.  He appointed himself Gai’s godfather, out of some mix of apology and loyalty to us both.”  There’s no heat behind the statement, more of a tolerated amusement.

Earlier, Veronica had said Dick was her friend, something Logan still can’t picture.  But it could be a convenient term for someone whom even a taser wouldn’t discourage.  “He can be a little hard to get rid of.”

“Yeah, when we got married Sam said I didn’t get to complain about any of the stray dogs he brought home.  One Dick was equal to a hundred bitches.”

Logan smiles half-heartedly at the jab.  “I think I kind of owe Sam an apology for that one.”

The fingers of her hands curl and straighten, the expression on her face settling into what can only be described as resolve.  The exhale before she speaks is loud, and forced.  “That might be kind of hard to do.  Logan, Sam’s gone.”

His brain must be on a lag, because that makes no sense.   True, she hadn’t mentioned talking to Sam once during this trip.  When he asked her about Sam’s reaction to what she’d found in Paraguay she hadn’t answered, so he thought things might be tense between her and her husband.  But it didn’t make sense that the guy left her.  Not the way she acts whenever he’s brought up.  “Gone.  What do you mean gone?”

She mouths something indecipherable then says, “He died.  Eight months ago.”

Logan shakes his head, launching to his feet.  Sam can’t be dead.  She’s wearing his ring, and talks like she’s still in love with the guy.  Almost like... like he’s been canonized.

_Yeah, and doesn’t that seem familiar?  When did Veronica ever speak badly about Lilly?  And didn’t she give the best possible version when describing me to Malachy?_

_And when did you ever hear one bad word about Eduardo from Eva?_

“But…no.  Veronica, I don’t – why didn’t you say anything?”

_Didn’t she?  What about last night, when she said ‘I’m crying like I’m **his** widow’.  Dammit, did she really say it like that?  No. No. NO! Can’t she get one break in this fucking life?_

“Because I thought I was dumping enough personal tragedy on _Malachy_ as it was,” she retorts.  There’s enough bite behind the remark to remind Logan he could have had this information two days ago.

_But she also said she told Sam the real reason she came to South America.  That she wasn’t about to start lying to him now. Now.  Now that he’s dead?_

It wouldn’t be the first time she’s talked to a memory. Lilly, him. 

While he’s cogitated over all this, she’s pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them.  Everything about her is giving ‘stay back’ signals.  His reaction put her on the defensive.

_You want to be her friend, Echolls?  Start acting like it._  

Squatting in front of her, Logan grabs her hands, pulling them away from where they’re clutching at her calves.  Veronica doesn’t resist, watching him with a stoic resolve that is so familiar on her face.   “Sorry. It—you took me by surprise.  What happened?”

“Line of duty.”

She’d told him Sam was a police detective.  A cop, killed on the job.  A red swath of anger wraps around Logan on her behalf.  He wants details:  How did it happen?  Whose fault is it?  Did somebody make them pay?

The pressure from her hands increase, and she suddenly looks small, vulnerable.  Her eyes are dry but flat, acceptance of this loss long set.  Everything in him demands to scoop her up on his lap and hold her, except he learned long ago not to treat her like a casualty.  Concerned, yes. Caring, sure.  But coddling was something she couldn’t tolerate.

“I’m so sorry.  Are you okay?  How’s Gai handling it?”

She shrugs and shakes her head, the strong, placid expression not wavering.  “We’re getting through.  It’s actually why I came down here.  I thought the whole thing might make him ask questions about you.  I wanted to be ready with answers.”

_Sam’s gone.  He died.  Line of duty.  We’re getting through_.  Her responses are short, succinct.  The way they always are when she doesn’t want to talk about something. Already she’s steering the conversation elsewhere, focusing on anything other than what’s really bothering her. 

Which explains so much about why she came looking for him/Logan in the first place.  She knew the credit card activity stopped over a decade ago, and the most likely scenario was the one she found: a young man dead by misadventure. Given a choice between dwelling on the death of her husband or that of the ex-boyfriend she said goodbye to long ago, she chose the less painful of the two. 

_We’re the same, Veronica. Processing my death was your equivalent of a fistfight.  In a weird way I’m sorry I took that away from you._

She doesn’t want to talk about Sam, and he’s all Logan wants to talk about.  Pushing past the remorse that’s lodged itself in his chest, he can only oblige her request for distractions.  Which includes talking about the fact that she came to South America for answers, and found him.

“Be careful what you wish for.”

The snicker is fleeting and sour.  “Seriously.  I don’t even know what to tell Gai now.  Logan I need time –“

The alarm on his watch chimes, signifying the 9:30 wake up time he’d planned. Logan irritably turns it off and waits for her to continue.  She seems ready to start a few times: opening and closing her mouth, finding and discarding words, looking for her place in her thoughts.

“Time to what, Veronica?”

 “To think.  I can’t do it all tonight, and I have to crack this case first.  Did you talk to Diego or Winston yet?”

He considers pushing her back to whatever she was going to say, but they haven’t reached that level of stasis between them yet. Not only does she not want to talk about Sam, she doesn’t want to talk about the future.  But she needs to focus on something else for a little while and let all this settle, which is fine.  He could use a breather, too.

“Winston saw somebody yesterday morning, about 3am, but it was too dark to see who.  I was going to talk to with Diego before I met you.  Also, Javier’s keys turned up before dinner, in the freezer.”

“They weren’t there when I got out the ice cream.”

“Exactly.”

“Okay.  I want to grab my list of the vics’ inventory and get started.”  She pulls her hands free of his and rises to stand.  “Will you help me now, and talk to Diego after?”

Jumping up too quickly, both his emotional and physical exhaustion make Logan sway on his feet.  He’s not in danger of falling over, but has been a sailor too long to blame it on the motion of the boat.  Veronica grabs his arms to steady him, alarm evident in her widened eyes.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just – I think all of this is catching up to me, you know?”

The small smile that flits across her lips is gone before it can set in. “Yeah. I think I do.” 

Her eyes are liquid and forgiving, making Logan realize she’s pushed thoughts of Sam and the case to the side.  And that she’s still holding onto his arms. He considers moving back, but before the thought can be transmitted to his feet she takes the last step toward him.  Veronica’s hands slide under his arms and wrap loosely around his waist, her forehead rests against his chest.  His hands move up to rest on her shoulders, completing the embrace without amplifying it.

“Logan, I don’t know what’ll happen after we dock.”

“I know.” 

“Once we walk out of this room things’ll get busy.”  Tilting her head back, she stares gravely up at him.  “There’s so much more to say.”

It occurs to Logan that Veronica could let the thief go, or wait to deal with it when they get into the L.A. port tomorrow.  They could stay in this room tonight, just the two of them, and talk until docking.   Except that’s not who she was, and still is, it seems.

“We’ll figure it out.”

Veronica’s hands slip down to tuck into her pockets and she steps back.  “If I don’t have this tied up before we get to L.A., it’ll be a mess.  This idiot didn’t just cross a line, he jumped the Grand Canyon.  The evidence he messed with will be used in prosecuting the deaths of all those agents.”

“The ring is evidence?”

“No, the bodies are.  Taking their jewelry constitutes tampering.”

“So if we don’t figure it out tonight…?”

“Then tomorrow your entire crew gets detained and they look closely into the backgrounds of every member.  Especially fake, mute Irishmen with keys to the body freezer.”  She cocks an eyebrow at him, but he doesn’t need the look to get her meaning.

Realizing how that would play out, even if he’ll ultimately be cleared, should make him a little scared. It doesn’t.  Instead he’s buoyed that her ultimate concern is with him rather than collaring a harmless thief.

This is why she enlisted his help from the beginning, and left Petturi out of it.  Once again she made herself his champion.

_And I gave you hard time for it this morning, calling you Clint Eastwood.  Once a jackass, always a jackass._

“So you’ve been doing this for me?” Ok, it may be a little overeager to ask with that giddy lilt to his voice.  Or with the smirk he just can’t seem to hold back, when he should apologize to her instead.

Veronica rolls her eyes and lets out an unrefined snort.  “No. I’m doing it for me. Otherwise I’ll be stuck working with Petturi and about a hundred other agents I don’t like, and it’ll take twice as long to solve.”  Her tongue moves to push out the side of her cheek and her eyes cross, in a goofy look of insanity.

_Is that what you need?  To laugh and joke no matter how fucked up this all is, like we used to do?_

“Yeah, that would suck almost as much as my getting detained in a federal lockup.” Logan says dryly.  He lifts his wrist to his ear, then shakes it and repeats the motion, a pantomime of seeing if his watch is working.  “This thing must run slow.  I only get arrested for felony crimes once every _seventeen_ years.  I thought it had been fifteen since the last one, but…”

“But you wanted to show how much you missed me.  You always were sweet like that.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Well, I didn’t have enough notice for flowers and chocolate.  Seriously, what makes you think you can solve this in one night?”

“Because you’re going to help me; and if memory serves you came in handy on cases before.”

Logan puts his hands together in prayer and casts his eyes upward.  “Please tell me I’m about to get a couple of hookers knocking on my door.”

Veronica narrows her eyes at him, but the corners of her mouth move suspiciously.   “Do you want to keep this up, or would you rather help me in the freezer?”

Raising and lowering his hands alternately, Logan scrunches up his face. Finally he ends the fake debate by throwing both arms up in the air.  “I say we’re capable of doing both, especially since it’s my ass you’re trying to protect.  Don’t forget to grab my jacket.”

“Logan,” she starts, now serious, “One guy taken into custody we can hide.  But if we dock and everyone gets detained, on top of a boatful of bodies, it will be a big news story.  One that links our names together.  If Gory reads that, he’ll find out about Gai.”

They need to find the ring thief to shelter their son.  And she’s asking him to help.  The first, and possibly only fatherly chore he’ll get to partake in.  

“Then let’s get to work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you everyone for all the lovely reviews, as well as the follows and favorites. This chapter put me through the wringer and all of your encouragement is why it's finally done. This is a reciprocal arrangement we have, you and I, and I truly appreciate knowing you're enjoying this story. Or it's killing you in a good way. Whichever works.
> 
> A/N: Nevertothethird, as always your insight was invaluable. I love the way you make me see how a subtle change can make an enormous difference. Your clear vision of these characters and this story is making all the difference.


	9. Inventory

Veronica stops at her room to grab her inventory list and hoody, explaining it's the only warm layer she brought with her. No one unexpected is around to see them go below deck. Based on the laughter and shouts coming from the mess, the crew is having such a good time they won't worry about what the two of them are doing.

Before they enter the freezer she puts on Logan's bulky green coat, and becomes instantly lost in it. The shoulders of the damn thing are practically twice as wide as she is, and the collar sticks up far enough to cover her ears. Given the wild ride of emotions Logan's been on tonight, it's understandable he cracks up. More so when he realizes the arms of the jacket extend about eight inches beyond the tips of her fingers. He starts to wheeze and has to lean over to grab his knees, straightening when he can catch his breath. Wiping the tears from his eyes he begs, "Please tell me our kid is normal size."

His laughter set off hers, intensifying when she waves her hands, making the sleeves flap. She holds them out to him, ordering, "Roll. And he's twelve, doofus. You and I were the same height at that age."

"Yeah, which is when you stopped growing." His hilarity ebbs to mild amusement as he rolls up the sleeve.

The insulted look she flashes him is too affected to be serious. "I needed a dainty appearance to match my personality."

He splutters and rolls up her second sleeve. "No, it's makes sure you're constantly underestimated."

"Works every time," she teases. "But to answer your question, Gai already has an inch on me. Now he's doing that chubbing up thing that means he's about to grow again."

Logan'd bulked up at the same at that age, and received no small amount of teasing from Veronica and Lilly for it. It wasn't even much weight; just a softer waistline and fuller cheeks. But since half their lives were spent in bathing suits, the girls noticed.

_Lilly called me Ham, after that kid in 'The Sandlot', and didn't stop until I shot up four inches. Gai could do the same before I ever meet him._

Nostalgia and regret overtake the humor, and he can feel his grin fade as he finishes and drops her arm. "That should do it."

Her eyes scan his face. Whatever she sees there has her grabbing his hand and to squeeze. "Logan—"

"What?" he snaps, harsher than he means to. "Sorry," he mutters, softer this time.

"The way you asked about him, I thought… does it bother you, to talk about Gai?"

Logan rubs his thumb rubs his thumb over the line of her wrist and thinks how to answer that. Before this week, Gai didn't exist for him. Before yesterday Gai didn't exist _because_ of him. Yet knowing he's responsible for the actuality of this child has awakened an unlabeled need. It's self-serving, given their circumstances, but there all the same. "I think it would bother me more if we don't."

Fuck, he hates the way his voice gets thick like that. Almost as much as he hates the sympathy that fills Veronica's eyes. He lets her go and steps back, digs his keys out of his pocket and unlocks the freezer. "C'mon," he implores gently, "I'm losing sleep for this."

Veronica's assesses him like she has some kind of telepathic power. Actually, it wouldn't surprise him if she does – though it would be just like her to not tell anybody. Pass off mind reading as intuition. The thought makes it a little easier to smile at her.

_If you can hear me, get your ass in the freezer. Oh, and you look like a baby in a papoose._

With a small grunt of a laugh she walks through the door he holds open, making Logan question their every past interaction.

_Get a grip, Echolls. If she could read your mind, she'd have shot you the first night on this boat._

Each body bag has a coded number on it, used in place of names. It makes things easier – less personal. He's assigned to check off the list while she does the actual rooting. Logan keeps his eyes focused on the paper in front of him to avoid looking at any faces. A repeat of yesterday's reaction won't help anybody right now.

With two people the work goes quicker than Veronica accomplished on her own, but the freezer is, well, freezing. Logan doesn't have a coat, just two layers of thermals and a sweatshirt on top of his t-shirt. Gloves keep his hands warm but his dick inverts, seeking warmth. After fifteen minutes his teeth chatter so hard they make his head ache. He ignores it; breaks will slow them down.

Except Veronica's thoroughness and gentle manner makes everything take longer than he expected. At each body she unzips the bag, then gently rearranges arms, clothing and hair so she can catalogue each item of jewelry Logan calls out. Returns the corpse's position back as it was, re-zips the bags, and crawls to the next body to repeat the process.

_Fellow lawmen, killed on the job. Like Sam. Jesus, how are you even doing this? No way will I bitch about being cold, or hurry your ass up._

"3789, what've you got?" Veronica asks at the seventh body.

"Gold w-watch, right arm."

"Check."

He looks down at his clipboard, and snorts. Even in these circumstances, she'd kept a sense of the absurd. "Ugly ass p-pinky ring, l-left hand. Nice d-description."

"And appropriate. Look at this thing."

"I'll p-pass. Blingy mobster b-bracelet, left w-wrist."

"Check. Is that why you never talk, because of the stutter?"

"It's m-m-my M-Mel Tillis imp-pression. Next."

When she stands up and stretches, he can hear her back pop in the quiet room. She shrugs out of the coat and holds it out to him. "How about we take turns? That, or we'll need to stop so often this'll take all night."

He'd love to be chivalrous and refuse, but the jacket would keep a flamingo warm in Antarctica. It still retains some of her warmth and he pulls it tight around himself.

She moves a few paces and drops down to the next bag, then zips it open. "3560."

"Butterfly necklace."

And so it goes, switching turns with the jacket until they're both forced to leave the freezer and warm up, with ten bodies left. The hallway is a balmy seventy degrees, and Logan sits with his back against the wall, elbows on his knees. Veronica walks and stretches.

"Take a break, Veronica. We're almost done."

"Yeah, and nothing else is missing."

"Isn't that a good thing?"

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. "No. I hoped the looting was more widespread."

"Then we want the thief to be greedy?"

"Greedy leaves a bigger trail. One ring is smart. Twenty rings is stupid."

"Well if we're going with smart that definitely narrows down your suspect list."

Veronica stops pacing to lean against the wall opposite him and shoves her hands in her pockets. "I feel like I'm missing something obvious." She scrunches up her face, then stares up at the ceiling. "Stupid brain is on overload this week, and it's totally your fault."

Logan waits her out, knowing her grousing is just for show. She'll figure it out once her detective/agent mind runs its well-worn paths.

She pushes off the wall and throws his jacket on. "I guess I'll just hope the last of the bodies are stripped clean. Are you ready?"

_For a sauna and three-day nap, sure._

"Kinda willing and sorta able." He scoops up the inventory list and pen, gratified that all the feeling has returned to his face. He should be able to get through the next hour.

A wasted hour. Every item is accounted for, including a five karat diamond necklace and a watch Veronica's positive is worth a couple grand. Since they're almost done, Logan takes a risk and glances at the timepiece, but he can't keep his eyes from straying to the face of its owner.

The victim is a man, thirties or forties, with dark hair and a moustache worthy of Deputy Sachs. His mouth is slack, open as if in a deep sleep, and his faded skin looks as though it was pale even before death drained most of its color.

Logan waits for the bile to rise again, or any other physical reaction to this sight. But nothing. Repeated visits to this room, as well spending a couple hours following Veronica around, has seasoned him to death's countenance.

His eyes flit down to the watch and he squints to read the brand name. "Longines? I don't know if it's vintage, but their cheapest today runs at least fifteen hundred."

Veronica looks up at him, her brows lifted in surprise. "So those rumors I heard are true. Do you double as a Bond-like spy when you're not on this tub?"

"I confirm or deny nothing."

"Mmm hmm." She sniffs and shakes her head, tucks away the man's arm and zips the bag closed before crawling to the next one. "My guess is, you read something about Longines watches and it went in the vault with movie lines and inspirational quotes."

_Which I haven't used in years. People who are mute leave lousy voice mail messages._

Logan doesn't know where he read about the watches, but is sure he did. "Or I am easily satisfied with the very best."

She stops in the middle of opening the bag and frowns up at him. "Rockefeller?"

In the past she got the source of his quotes right about half the time, which was still more than most people. He shakes his head and grins despite the pain in his cheeks. The cold has seeped into every muscle, including those in his face. "Churchill."

Her purple gloves curl around the ivory hand of the man she hovers over. "Well, you and Churchill wouldn't have anything in common with this one. 3320. Timex with a black wristband and cheap gold wedding ring."

Checking it off the list, he confirms, "Nothing else for him. Last one. 3450. Should have a silver chain necklace, hoop earrings, and three silver rings, right hand."

Veronica closes up the bag, shuffles to open the next one and explores. "Check. Check. And Check. Shit."

The hollow remorse in her voice has him looking up from his clipboard. "Does that mean you're ready to bring Petturi into it?"

 _Please say no._ The reasons she kept her partner out in the first place haven't changed. Logan's reassured by the stubborn set to her face when she looks at him.

"No. I get tonight. If I don't come up with anything then I'll 'discover' the missing ring during the morning body check and go from there. What time will we get to L.A.?" She leads their way to the door with ginger steps between the bodies. Logan places the clipboard on the floor, inside, by the door.

As for her question, when he left the helm earlier they were making great time. "Best guess, around five a.m. A little early for a body check."

Veronica sheds the jacket and clutches it; the ends dangle just above their feet as they face each other. "So I couldn't sleep and ran into you. We'll flub it. Problem is, that doesn't give us much time. It'd be ever-so lovely if Diego saw someone come in here during the past few nights, so we can narrow this down a little."

"I'll talk to him and hey, relax," he grabs the coat and throws it in the corner. "One way or the other we'll find your Artful Dodger."

The way she freezes, her eyes unfocusing and rising above his, Logan worries he said something wrong. But no, again it's that expression she gets when she's found the missing puzzle piece.

"Aaargghhh!" Veronica slaps a palm against her forehead three times in rapid succession. "Pockets! The thief took a ring, but focused the rest of the time on the money they were carrying. I knew I missed something!"

Logan steps back to lean against the wall, resisting the urge to kick it in. "So we're starting all over, checking everyone's pockets?"

"Yes!" Her frustration is gone, replaced with a smile and wide-eyed excitement.

No one should look that enthusiastic about spending another couple of hours in a freezer. With a bunch of stiffs. At one in the morning.

_Seriously? Put a scythe in your hands and you could be the Grim Reaper's annoying little sister._

He has to bite the inside of his lip to keep it from turning up at the image created. "Do you have an inventory for what they were carrying," he asks instead.

She shakes her head. "No, I was going off what showed in the photos. But that's where I'm counting on greed. Someone shifted those bodies to be able to reach each one. If _none_ of them are carrying cash, we know our grave robber has a wad of American dollars. Would anyone on the crew have an excuse for that?"

They received their pay from the business office in Coquimbo the day they started this trip, but the currency was pesos, not dollars. No one had time to make an exchange before they left port. They hadn't actually gotten off the ship in the US in a few months, and everyone said they were broke. Logan cocks his head. "How do you know the agents were carrying dollars, not pesos?"

"Just playing the odds. They hadn't gotten off the ship yet, and few American tourists exchange all their money. It's hard to use foreign currency in the states, and you usually need a few bucks to get out of the airport and home. Cabs, tips, whatever."

Thinking about the two money clips he always kept when he took trips from Neptune to Mexico, her logic holds.

"Logan, to get this done quickly, I need you to look in their pockets, too." She's pulls the inside of her bottom lip between her teeth, perhaps afraid he'll refuse.

And refuse is exactly what he wants to do. It'd just gotten so he could look in the face of death; digging through its pockets is a whole other matter.

His heavy sigh is its own answer. "Do you have any more doctor gloves?"

"In my room. I'll grab them, sneak to the kitchen and get us some coffee while you talk to Diego, then meet you back here. Keys?"

He slaps them into her hand and smirks while following her to the stairs. As macabre as this all is, it kind of appeals to his appreciation of dark humor. "Three days ago my life was calm, normal. Now you're back in it and I'm frisking thirty-five dead people to see if they're carrying any cash."

Two steps up she stops, making him mentally kick himself for breaking his vow of silence. They came to some kind of peaceable terms just a few hours ago, and he already blew it with a stupid joke. The hard scrutiny she gives him when she turns around has his brain scramble to form an acceptable apology.

"Veronica, I'm s—"

"Stop." She orders, her eyes closing to slits as she glowers at him. "A multi-millionaire working a cargo ship, pretending he's mute, and hiding behind enough hair to cover a grizzly's ass is normal? I don't think that word means what you think it means. And it's thirty-two people. If you exaggerate, at least double it." Mirth gilds her features, even as she holds the scowl in place.

"A grizzly's ass?" Logan shakes his head with disappointment. "Of all the comparisons – Rapunzel, Rip Van Winkle, Walt Whitman – that's what you come up with? And it's thirty-five bodies. I loaded them. I should know."

Veronica squints an eye at him, the smile that has yet to break contracting at the crook of her lips. "You can try to pretend that look ranked with fairy tale characters and poets, but I'm a realist. A realist who studied pictures of thirty- _two_ people to see what jewelry they wore. Count them on the inventory list."

"It's in the freezer, and I don't need it. You missed a few." He oversaw the body loading, so is sure about this. The crew and policemen lined them up in three rows, the last containing eleven instead of twelve. Just two days ago he counted them again.

"I think when we ended up with bodies that weren't on the list, I would've noticed."

Veronica's always been stubborn, but she has a point. A point he can't care less about. He's having too much fun arguing with her, and the spark in her eyes says she's equally entertained.

"Then _you_ miscounted," Logan insists. "Go back in there and check."

"I don't need to check." She shakes her head in pity, like he's the last pick for kickball. "I know I'm right, and I want that coffee."

"Fine. When we get back, we'll tally them together. Loser has to say the words 'you were right'." To anyone else this would be a stupid bet, but when Veronica's chin juts out, Logan has to laugh at her.

They shake on it, the usual coolness of her fingertips now like bits of ice pressing against his skin. She lets him go and stomps up the stairs.

I **NSERT BREAK**

With the breeze, it's only a few degrees warmer on deck than it was in the hallway; the difference is pleasant, however, after being in the freezer so long. A few voices drift out from the mess. There'll be some tired crew members in the morning.

Veronica walks a little ways and then, instead of heading to her berth, moves to stand with her back to the railing. Her yawn is massive. "God, it feels good out here. Want to take a little break?" she whispers.

Logan joins her, the levity from just a few minutes ago dissipating in the night. Already the quiet he has to maintain in public feels strange. Although, enforced silence is good for him since he just risked blowing things with his smartass remark.

Her head tips to look up at the sky, the blonde hair falling down her back, silvery in the slight moonlight. "Wow." Her voice is low, barely above a murmur. "Living in San Diego it's easy to forget how many stars there are. I mean, it's nothing like this, but when I first moved there I used to take Gai to Torrey Pines. We'd play on the beach until it was really dark, then lay above the tide listening to the waves and gaze at the night sky. Remember how I loved doing that?"

He did - it was Veronica who first introduced him to the charm of a dark, deserted beach. First with Lilly and Duncan, then later, just the two of them.

The point of the story, he's sure, isn't to harken back to old times. She's doing as he asked, and gifting him with bits from her and Gai's life. Knowing that doesn't stop the memories from coming. So many times she came to his hotel room, grabbed a couple blankets, and told him to move his ass or they'd be late to the submarine races. They snuggled for hours, watching the whitecaps when there was enough light, letting the lull of the surf fill their ears when there wasn't.

They talked little, neither wanting to disturb the sanctuary they found. Their kisses, when they shared them, were of the sweetest variety. The kind that lack in want or need because everything you desire, you already have.

Those nights had gotten tons of replay over the years. What's new is Veronica by his side, her shoulder bumping his while they share the memory. It's a paradoxical comfort while, this time, his heart aches for those missed beach times with Gai.

_This'll get easier, right? At some point I'll stop tallying losses every time his name comes up?_

Except, that time has never come for Eva. She still gets fractious when certain dates loom on the calendar, and it's bittersweet for her anytime one of her brothers call with news of their children.

_It's not the same. She'd give anything to know her children are alive, and safe, even if she couldn't be with them. You need to remember that when you tell her about Gai._

Veronica's quiet while his mind jumps around, but it doesn't feel as though she's waiting for a response. More like she's lost in her own head. Given the way a voice can carry on water he leans in and mumbles quietly, "Still?"

She shakes her head. "We haven't done it for years. I had my job, Gai started school, and I met Sam. On weekends we went hiking or camping instead; Sam preferred the forest," she explains. Her heavy sigh is tough to interpret. Regret? Wistfulness? "I didn't realize how much I missed the ocean."

He waits, expecting more to follow. After all, the widow's journey is familiar to him. Logan can remember paint shopping with Eva when they were redoing their bedroom. She kept pulling out and putting back orange color slides. He asked her why and she shrugged, "The bedroom is only not for me. We will pick a color we both like."

It came out that Eva always wanted an orange bedroom, but Eduardo hated the color. She couldn't explain why she was still editing her preferences to accommodate her late husband's, and Logan limited their choices to the citrus hues. Once they finished the room she stood in the middle of it and spun around. Her face beamed when she hugged him and said, "Maybe, is okay I pick for me now."

Except, Veronica is silent. There's no mention of taking Gai back to the beach. No half-hearted jokes about never having to hike again. No talk of returning to things she enjoyed pre-Sam. It could be she's fallen quiet, but he worries that she's not ready to move on from Sam's loss in even that small way yet.

Eva's words come back to him, ' _You think after two days you know her life? You only know answer if you ask question'._

"Well, what do you say we get on with this?" Veronica sighs and pushes off the railing. While she heads for the kitchen he remembers his assignment is to go up to the helm and talk to Diego.

Logan's steps up to the wheelhouse are soft, not wanting the sound of his work boots on the metal to interrupt his thoughts. He _had_ asked how she and Gai were dealing. Her answer, 'We're getting through,' had been vague, dismissive - which could mean anything with someone like her.

With everything else pressing down on them, he'd let it go. But after either solving this case, or giving up on it, he'll want a real answer to that question.

_Otherwise, I may have to find another way to check in on you. Dick, or Wallace – someone has to make sure you move forward. Give you a kick in the ass, if needed._

Still brooding, he opens the wheelhouse door and steps inside. Diego looks at him in surprise, the large, garish ring he's spinning on the counter coming to a stop in front of him.

_Oh fucking hell._

**INSERT BREAK**

Diego's face is stamped with guilt as he slides the ring off the counter and puts it in his pocket. The shadows under his eyes are deep, and one hand grips the wheel so tight his knuckles are white. "Hola, Monk. What're you doing up so late?"

Logan steps into the room, making sure the door is closed behind him before he answers. "Playing 'To Catch a Thief'. Diego, man, what the hell?"

He's known Diego for years. Listened to stories of children's births, parents' deaths, marital problems, and his worst drinking days. But Logan's never seen him cry. Yet, now, Diego's chin gives a telling quiver and his eyes fill before he clamps a hand over them. His sobs are silent, but evidenced by the rise and fall of his shoulders and the jerky breath he takes in.

"I'm sorry." Diego uncovers his eyes and uses the backs of his wrist to wipe at them. "I know, I know it was wrong. But Emilia, she's so worried about money. When I took that agent down to the freezer, it made me think about that yacht, and how rich all those dead people were. I thought nobody would notice."

"Of course someone would notice. If not here, then back at the FBI morgue when the bodies are compared to the crime photos. Or when the family claims the personal effects." Logan shakes his head, and can't keep the harsh tinge of accusation out of his voice. It's Diego's fault this all got so fucking complicated.

"I know. I thought of that after. I even meant to put it back tonight, but when I went down to the freezer you were in there. Both of you." Diego sniffs and looks up, blinking rapidly. "I wondered if that's what you were looking for but I hoped, later I could…" His voice trails off and he lowers his gaze to the floor, unable to maintain any more eye contact.

This is no criminal mastermind—merely a guy desperate to take care of his family. Except, Diego's explanation doesn't fit with all the other clues he and Veronica gathered. It's too simple. "You thought you'd return the ring before we get into L.A. tomorrow since you took their money instead."

Diego's features narrow in confusion. "What money? I didn't take no money."

"Then why'd you go back in the freezer?"

"When did I go back?"

"This morning after I relieved you." _When the bodies got moved. I thought you were sleeping and you were shuffling corpses, picking their pockets. Fucking why, Diego?_

"What? No I didn't."

Logan rubs his eyes to get rid of the dry sensation from being up so late. He slides his hands around to cup his neck and threads his fingers into the short hairs, thinking.

"Diego, can we backtrack a little? When did you steal the ring?"

"Thursday, the night I took that agent down to the freezer. I went back just before starting my shift."

But Diego wouldn't need Javier's keys. He has his own. Veronica found that bag unzipped Thursday morning. She swore Logan had locked the freezer when they left, though Diego said it was unlocked that night. All those events happened before Diego took the ring. But the bodies got moved around sometime between Thursday night and Friday morning.

"And have you gone back to the freezer?"

"No. I just… I couldn't. Not until I decided to return the ring. I haven't been able to sleep since the bodies got on this ship, and it got worse after I stole it. I just keep seeing that dead lady's face." Diego's voice breaks on the last couple of words and he lets out a large breath.

There are so many other things to account for in this mystery, but as yet Logan doesn't even know if there's any money missing. All that's clear is this night is far from over.

"Did you see anybody else going down to the cold storage? Either when you sat up here or other times of the day?"

Diego shakes his head. "No, no one. I was just kidding about being God and seeing everything. The only reason I saw you last night was because of that shivery feeling you get when someone is watching you, and I turned around at the right minute."

"Has anyone asked for your keys, so they can get something from crew stores?"

Finally Diego realizes this is about more than just his theft of the ring. He cocks his head and narrows his eyes at Logan. "No. You said money before. Did someone take their money?"

Logan isn't a trained interrogator. He's going about this questioning all wrong, given that Diego is now the guilty party. Or _a_ guilty party, anyway.

_And now you've screwed up the one thing Veronica asked you to do. Brilliant, Logan._

"No. I just assumed if someone would take the ring, it'd be after they grabbed the cash. Why didn't you take that instead?"

Diego turns to study the band of ocean in front of him, his voice low. "I don't know. I was just thinking about Emilia, and the ring is the first thing I saw. What is that word you North Americans use for a man who doesn't take care of his family? Deadbeat?"

"One, you're not a deadbeat. A moron maybe," Diego looks up, his pained reflection visible in the window, "but there are worse kinds of fathers out there. Believe me, mine was one of them. Two, if you needed money why didn't you say something?"

"To who?" Diego shakes his head, but still doesn't turn around. "Nobody I know has money, and even if they did it's not like I need another loan to repay."

This is the problem with lying to your friends. Don't tell them you have millions of dollars, they won't admit when they're strapped. Then they go and do something stupid.

Logan also studies the calm ahead of them, trying to figure out his next move. He can't hide Diego's theft from Veronica, but he hates the thought of turning over his friend. He's also not sure if he should take the ring from Diego and return it to her, or leave him here with it while he goes to find Veronica. Which is why her working with her actual partner would make this so much easier.

"Monk, what do I do?"

At least one other person snuck into that freezer. Whatever they've been up to, the crimes need to be kept separate or Diego could hang for it all.

"You need to confess to Agent Mars-Zare. Radio Winston and tell him she's either in the kitchen or the freezer and he needs to bring her up here. And not to tell anyone he's looking for her."

Most people would be upset at copping to a US fed, but Diego looks relieved. The potential consequences mean he could lose his job, and risks going to a federal prison in a foreign country. However, they've been friends a long time, and Logan knows Diego isn't made to carry around guilt.

Once he sets the walkie-talkie down Diego leans his head down on his forearm. "I am so fucked."

Logan grabs the wheel and orders Diego out of the chair to mop up his face and get himself under control. Good thing, too, since the instruments show the ship is headed a few degrees off course. They don't need to land at some port in Mexico with a ship full of corpses and all their other baggage.

When the other man passes him while giving up his seat, Logan smells the tequila on his breath. After twenty years of sobriety.

 _No. If Diego can fall off the wagon, so can I. Un_ fucking _acceptable._

"Diego, man, pull it together. We'll figure this out."

"Fuck you. You don't have a family so you don't understand. What are they supposed to do while I rot in some FBI prison?"

Logan shouldn't be relieved that Diego's gone from hysterical to angry, but it's easier to deal with than a grown man crying.

Diego reaches into a cabinet and pulls out an open bottle of tequila. The label is faded, but recognizable as the same brand Logan had caught him with before. The same bottle, if he had to guess, though the seal is broken and a few swallows are missing.

_Whatever it takes, keep him from stepping off the ledge._

"Your family'll be taken care of. By me. I'll make sure they're covered and hire you the best fucking attorney available."

"You don't know how much money it takes for a family my size, Monk! Shit, I make more than you and I can't afford them." Diego opens the bottle and raises it to his lips.

_No, man. Not when you have half a dozen kids waiting for you to come home._

"Yeah, well, I have money. A lot of it. I'm goddamn loaded."

Diego re-caps the bottle without taking a drink, and cocks his head like a confused spaniel. "When did you get a haircut?"

With a snicker, Logan shakes his head. It's just further evidence how entrenched Diego was in his own drama he didn't notice before. "A few hours ago. Do you want to talk manscaping now, or would you rather hear what I want in exchange for the money?"

"Yeah, yeah, the money." Diego moves his hands in a brushing away fashion, the liquid sloshing around inside the bottle. "Mierda. If you're so rich why are you working here?"

"It's not bullshit. Imagine where I would be with a ton of money, no responsibilities _and_ unlimited free time."

"Your cock in one hand and a bottle in the other," Diego says, an old joke between them.

"Pretty much."

"You're serious?" It's as much challenge as question. "About the money, I mean."

"Yes. Do you want my help or not?"

Diego places the tequila on the counter, clutches his hair in his hands and hides behind his forearms. "Yes. Fuck, yes. What do you want?"

"The bottle."

Diego looked guilty when Logan caught him with the ring. That doesn't compare to how the guy's jaw drops in an 'oh, fuck' expression. He glances at the tequila, appearing surprised that it's come out of its hiding place.

He silently hands over of the bottle, and Logan rolls it in the palm of one hand. The desire to drink it is there, but is also accompanied by the same dread he felt in his apartment in Greece, and again at that little bar in Antofagasta.

_A bottle of bad decisions waiting to happen, or a chance in hell you'll meet your kid some day? Just to be clear, you don't get both._

Logan lifts his head to find Diego watching him. "You'll get whatever you need for your family and attorneys as long as you stay sober. But if you use this mess as an excuse drink again, you can figure it out on your own."

Lie. If Diego slips he'll pay for rehab, too. There are so few people in the world Logan can call friend that he won't let the guy go down; however, Diego needs a reason not to backslide. Taking care of his family has gotten him through the past twenty years; it can get him a little farther.

"I only had a few drinks."

"That's all you'll get if you take this deal. It's up to you."

Diego's eyes don't waiver from his, even as his arm rises. "Okay, yeah, Okay. I don't – I can't image telling Emilia — the kids… that I can't feed -"

Logan shakes the hand extended to him, leaning in when Diego pulls him closer. The ritual guy hug backslaps commence.

Veronica walks in and clears her throat. The two men pull apart like hugs are something to feel guilty about. Logan looks up at her, and whatever he was going to say loses its way before it ever leaves his mouth.

Though she is naturally pale, now her skin is alabaster, with a sheeny waxiness to it. Only panic can increase your heart rate enough to bring on that kind of sweat, but somehow keep blood from flowing through your body. Something is very, very wrong.

_Jesus, Veronica. I've never seen you like this. What the hell is going on?_

"You guys wanted me?" Her manner is that of casual curiosity, and in Diego's state Logan's sure he won't notice how freaked out she is.

Somehow Diego finds his courage, pulls the ring out of his pocket, and holds it out to her with a shaky hand. "I stole that Thursday night, just before midnight. I saw it when I took you down to the hold and I thought… " his voice cracks and he has to clear his throat to finish. "I thought I would sell it for the money. I've never done something like that before. I was gonna put it back tonight, but you guys were in there."

Veronica's hand is steady, but her movements are too controlled as she takes the ring and tucks it into her own pocket, nodding. Though her gaze is focused on Diego, her eyes flit to Logan's every couple of seconds. "Did you take anything else?"

Diego shakes his head emphatically. "No. No, ma'am. Just the ring. I didn't – I couldn't." His voice breaks as his eyes well up with tears again.

Veronica runs her tongue over her lips and presses them together, swallowing. "Diego, I need to know. Have you seen anyone else going below deck? Anyone at all?"

"No." Diego answers, that narrowed eyed look coming back. "I don't watch the back of the ship when I'm driving, and I didn't see anyone."

 _Can I trust him?_ Veronica's question radiates off of her. Though she doesn't speak the words, something in her eyes screams at Logan.

In the past his friends consisted of people who raped, murdered, drugged and kidnapped. It took Lilly's homicide for him to grasp that his father was an actual psychopath. Yet Veronica is still waiting for him to make a judgment call, and she needs him to be right.

"He's telling the truth," Logan declares. "One instance of sticky fingers does not a criminal make."

"Wait, she knows you can talk?" Diego asks, looking back and forth between them.

Logan chuckles. Diego is like a magpie tonight, distracted by things like haircuts and talking mutes. "Dude, focus. The agent's trying to talk to you."

"You're sure?" Veronica's beseeching look sobers him.

"Yes," Logan locks his eyes on hers. "I'd trust Diego with my life. And yours."

Veronica nods and turns her attention to Diego. "How about we make a deal? I'll return the ring and we'll pretend this never happened. But Diego, you can't tell anyone, no matter what, okay?" She rocks a bit on her feet but her words come out slow, and lack any sense of urgency. Which makes no sense because everything else about her spells terror.

"Why? I mean, yeah, hell yeah. But why?" Diego is a smart man, despite his momentary lapse in judgment. He would understand these kinds of deals are not as simple as they seem on the surface.

Veronica shrugs and gives him a small, brief smile. "Because everyone deserves a break once in a while? Maybe I hope it'll be my turn next. Didn't you ever let one of your crew slide when you shouldn't have?"

That answer to that question is truer than she could know. Or maybe she does know, given that their chef can't cook, one of the drivers is incapable (seemingly) of using a CB radio, and the guy who just fetched her is made of more sweetness than brain cells.

Diego looks between the two of them again. All trace of the broken man is gone, replaced with one used to being in charge. "This is my fucking ship. If something's going on, I need to know."

"No. As long as these bodies are on this ship, it's mine. You need to keep this quiet - don't say a word to anyone, including Agent Petturi. Get us to L.A. And _no matter what,_ you never took that ring, otherwise it's both our jobs. Got it?" Her voice shakes a little at the end, but keeps its authority.

Whatever mind-meld Veronica was using on him before, Logan can see she's doing the same thing to Diego. The ten-second, silent conversation they have is powerful because Diego ends it nodding, trance-like. "Sure, yeah. Okay."

Her lips lilt in some resemblance of a smile. Her request of, "Malachy, do you mind helping me finish up?" is casual. Too casual

Logan holds up a finger. "Yeah, I just need a minute." He's further alarmed when her next attempt to smile ends up a sick grimace, and even that disappears before she heads out the door.

Diego slinks down in his chair, laughing low and deep, and a little hysterical. "Monk, what the hell just happened?"

"You got a 'Get out of jail free card'. From her. But I'm not letting you off about this," Logan tips up the bottle, "or the money. You'll get whatever you need when we get home, and if you feel like you're going to slip again you have to call me. Got it?"

Though the bags under Diego's eyes are just as present as before, he looks like five years have come off his weathered face. He waves his hand at Logan, brushing the reassurance away. "Yeah, yeah, I'll call you. But I'll be okay on the money. What else, though? Should I be worried?"

"Not yet. I'll let you know." They can fight about the money later. Logan has to find out what the hell is going on with Veronica. "Don't forget to say your thanks." He points heavenward, knowing Diego's beliefs will necessitate the ritual.

"And light a candle every day for the next year. You better believe it, amigo."

The grins they exchange are more heartfelt on Diego's side. Logan is too anxious about what he's going to discover in the next five minutes.

**INSERT BREAK**

He finds Veronica waiting on the second floor landing. A momentary pause to toss the tequila bottle in the sea, and he follows her to her berth. She's in a hurry. Standing there while she grabs her laptop and phone, he resists shutting the door to ask questions. But when she grabs her gun Logan launches himself off the door and goes to his own room.

His pistol is still buried at the bottom of a drawer. He bought it thinking about Gory, and maybe pirates. Never had he imagined using it to protect someone lost to him. After a quick check of the chamber he shoves the gun into the back waistband of his pants.

Veronica is in the doorway behind him, and he knows she saw. While her face is still pale - a blatant contrast to the dark night behind her – she looks reassured. She holds a finger over her lips, a reminder not to talk, and walks toward the stairs that head below deck. Her gun is now holstered on her hip. Before she lifts her shirt to cover it, he sees there is another, smaller one tucked into the back of her own pants.

She takes the stairs two at a time. Before he even reaches the fourth step she's hit the floor and yanked open her laptop. One knee is next to her ear in her awkward squat. The click of the door is akin to a starting pistol, letting him finally speak.

"Veronica, what the hell is going on?"

She ignores him, logging into satellite reception and typing something into a search engine.

"Veronica." Not even a glance in his direction.

" _Ronnie._ "

That gets her attention even if it's just to glare at him. "You know I hate it when you call me that."

 _Which is why I knew it would work._ "Then stop ignoring me."

"I'm not ignoring you. I'm busy." She seizes the laptop and jumps up, thrusting it into his hands.

"Read this," she orders, and moves past him to unlock the freezer.

Logan puts his back against the wall, ass on the floor, and settles the computer across his legs so he can read whatever has her in such a tizzy. When he finishes, he looks up to find her watching him. The fear and anxiety he'd seen on her face now runs through him. Though he doesn't get all the implications yet, nothing about this can be good.

"You were right, Logan."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you to my friend and beta, nevertothethird. As usual you find me floundering in the dark, grab my hand and take me back to the path I started on. I really don't know how I would do any of this without your help.
> 
> A/N: And thanks to all of you for your feedback. Your heartfelt reviews and messages push me when I need it most.


	10. Don't Breathe

"You were right, Logan." Cradled in Veronica's hands is a small dark box made out of paper mesh, starched into a hard shape with rounded corners.

Logan looks at the box, the approximate size of a fat paperback. He misses the connection between it and the silly bet they made earlier. "So there's thirty-five people in there."

"No, thirty-two. You loaded thirty-five _bags._ Unless I've got it wrong, three of them were fakes. Some kind of dummy or doll, filled with these."

"And those are…" His eyes fall to the screen in front of him. The website is named Anarchist Toys, and the video titled, 'Let's Go Thermo'. The forty-second film shows an industrial freezer exploding. A blast replaces the freezer with a huge ball of fire which dissipates to a cloud of dark smoke and then clears. Instead of the burned-out hulk you'd expect, only a raining cloud of shrapnel gives evidence the freezer had even existed.

Her hands shake as she clutches the box and gently lifts the lid. Nestled inside is a pager-like thing with two wires, one running underneath the plastic lid on an unlabeled, metal canister, the other to a small charge. "The first two bodies I checked didn't have any pockets. The third, his front pockets were empty. I rolled him over to see if he had a wallet and found this. I only checked two people so far, but both have this setup, under the clothes at their back. My guess is they all do."

 _Charges. The freezer. Bombs. Thirty-two bombs. She's_ holding _one of those fuckers._

Logan sets the laptop aside and stands up achingly slow, not entire sure his knees will hold him. "Veronica—"

"They talked to us about these a year ago; they've been popping up all over the place." She tiptoes closer to him. "It looks small, but don't let it fool you. This isn't adorable and quaint, like C-4."

_Think, Logan. Bombs - here. Get her out._

Lifeboat. He can load her into it and have them in the water in under two minutes. He'll paddle them away from this death ship so quietly no one will know they're missing until the morning. These waters are busy – they'll be picked up within a day, especially since she can use her phone to call for help. The FBI can probably track the phone's GPS to find them.

It takes everything in Logan to make his voice come out rational. "Ok, here's what we're gonna do—"

She cuts him off again, intent on her explanation. Despite the cold air billowing out of the freezer behind her, beads of sweat dot her upper lip.

"No, C-4 just blows up, and anything close is affected, damaged. This _obliterates_. Let's say you send a signal to the pager – or thirty-two pagers if you're going big. The signal sets off two groups of charges, spaced apart. The first to release the fuel, aerosol, like a can of spray paint. Given a few seconds, the fuel has some time to mix with oxygen. The second charge is the igniter."

He reaches out a hand toward the box she's holding, though it's the last thing he wants to touch. "Veronica, let me put this down and -"

The hand not supporting the ( _bomb it's a bomb)_ grabs his arm; her fingers dig in so deeply it won't surprise him if he ends up with bloody, crescent-shaped scabs tomorrow. Tomorrow – a concept that has become intangible in the last ten minutes.

"Logan, these things do the most damage in enclosed spaces. Creates a blast wave. The kind that can make you wonder what was even there a second ago because it's gone now."

_An enclosed space… like a freezer on a ship._

"There's enough in there to incinerate the boat? Like in that video?"

"I don't know. I think there's enough to blow a sizable hole in it, at least, maybe kill everyone on board."

It was the oddest sensation Logan had ever experienced, being able to feel the tempo of his own heart go from adagio to prestissimo in four beats. _Get. Her. Off. ThisShip._

"Veronica, put it down and follow me. We'll launch the lifeboat, call somebody from the water—," his words come out too fast, too loud, stopping abruptly when she interrupts.

"Call who? The FBI?" She drops his arm and points to herself. Her laugh is caustic, jittery. "I'm here, Logan. Me. This is my problem."

"No. Petturi can deal with this. I'll get him and then we can go." He doesn't care if it's unfair, if Petturi has his own family to consider. Right now the world is narrowed to two people: Veronica, and the son who's already lost a parent this past year.

His feet somehow carry him down the short hallway, though his joints almost give like they've been filled with jelly. He's startled when she jumps in front of him, landing herself on the first step so they're almost eye level. She's no longer holding the box, and he can only assume she set it down. Thank God.

"You can't, Logan. Think _._ Someone snuck bombs on this ship. They've been coming down here the past three days to put them with each body. Getting rid of the extra bags. Moving things around. Who did that?"

Mystery novels are a fantastic way to while away time on a ship. Read a few chapters, mull over the clues both obvious and benign, and make hypotheses. The process engages parts of his mind that would otherwise lay idle; it rarely matters if he ends the book satisfied or surprised; the methodology is the point.

_Who do you think did all that, Logan? The man who's spent three years with a drug cartel, or one of these sailors?_

It take several regulated breaths to keep him grounded to that spot because, this time, the logical conclusion complicates everything. If the other agent is involved, Veronica will refuse to go anywhere. "You're sure it was Petturi?"

Veronica drops to sit on the stairs. "No. I'm not sure of anything. It's one scenario, but I can think of three others just as likely. Each one involves somebody on this boat with an agenda."

Which means the bombs aren't the only threat she faces. Somebody went to a lot of time, trouble and expense to pull this off. They won't be happy she found out.

She can't weigh more than 115 pounds. Every muscle in his arms twitch to throw her over his shoulder and carry her away. So what if he ends up with a few claw marks; they'll heal. They always did before.

Except the determined set to her jaw tells him he'd as likely end up with a bullet in his kneecap if he even tries. Despite the abject fear still bleaching her complexion, she's taken ownership of this. Which means he has the choice to fight her, or help her.

To help her they have to get on the same page of this fucking whodunit.

"Okay, question." His thoughts spin and settle, organizing themselves. "Why arm each individual corpse? If they wanted to get rid of the bodies they could have just blown up the yacht. Or blown up our ship by now."

"Well then, getting rid of the bodies wasn't their first priority." Veronica rests her elbows on her knees, her voice finally evening out as she analyzes the situation. "If we know what is, then maybe we can figure out who's behind it."

"Where do the bodies go, once we dock? You said most of the agents are out of Chicago."

She cocks her head, studying him. "I don't know. My job was ending once we reach L.A., and I didn't ask a lot of questions."

Logan can't help when his eyebrows raise in surprise at that. She lifts one of hers and reminds him, "Hey, at the time I was a little preoccupied with _your_ _death_ to really focus on anything else."

_And a wise man once said… nothing._

"So what do we do?" he asks instead.

"Preventative measures. It's," she grabs his wrist and checks his watch, "quarter to two now. We have about three hours before we dock. I need to work the phones, get a whack of people out of bed and make sure we have a prepared team waiting for us."

"And me?" There's no way she can expect him to just watch her work. Every nerve ending is on fire, screaming for action.

She stands up, her lower lip caught under her teeth. "Could you stay close by? Maybe keep watch on deck while I do this?"

_Mark this one on the calendar, folks. Veronica Mars actually asked a stupid question._

Logan nods and passes by her as he heads up the stairs, stopping to link his pinky with hers. When she turns to look at him he gives her a small smile, meant to reassure. She lets her head fall forward against his shoulder. While they stand that way, he can feel strength transfer between them.

With a small kiss on top of her head, Logan releases her hand. They move in opposite directions; Veronica down the stairs, him outside to hunker in the shadows near the door and watch for any movement in the night, gun in hand.

* * *

In the thirty minutes he waits, little happens – a few bursts of laughter from the mess, and Chuck and George take turns going in and out of the head. No surprise. The two men share the same brain and Chuck got the bulk of it; George probably didn't even know he needed to piss until Chuck did it first.

The only other person he sees moving around is the night navigator, Vincente. Starting from Winston's perch, he went down to the wheelhouse to spend five minutes with Diego, then moved toward the engine room. Given it's his job to keep them on course and check for mechanical problems, there's nothing noteworthy about it. The only problem is that when he entered the mess a few minutes after that, he never came back out. The navigator was supposed to keep his mind on his job, not poker.

A "pssst" sounds behind him, permission to rise out of his crouch and go back inside. "Did you get ahold of anybody?" he asks.

"Yeah, things are starting to happen on that end."

Until she confirmed that she had the support of other agents, he hadn't realized how much of this he'd been carrying on his own back. People are now involved that knew what they're doing, unlike him. His hands flex with the release of tension that flows out of them. "So we evacuate, right?"

His mind hadn't been idle while he waited. The smartest move would be to get as much distance from the bombs as possible. He'd been selfish before, only thinking of Veronica. Whoever the bad egg was, Petturi or someone else, they likely wouldn't blow themselves up. Get everyone to safety and then figure it out. In his head he's already assigned jobs to each crew member to make Operation Abandon Ship happen, and fast.

"No, we don't."

He gapes at her, incredulous. "Why the fuck not?"

"Two reasons. First, it would tip off that we know. The perp wouldn't even need a gun to hold us hostage, just the signal to set off the bombs. Second, there's more boat traffic near us, right?"

There was. Late spring is always busy in this stretch of sea and they'd seen several cruise ships, fishing vessels, sailboats, yachts, and cargo ships like theirs. "So? What does that have to do with anything?"

Her mouth tightens and he can sense the impatience behind it. "If I were to try and pull off something like this, I'd follow as close as possible. That way I could keep my eye on things and be around to help out my guy if he ends up in a tight spot. Bring reinforcements or pick him up, if needed. The more boats around, the closer I could get, and you would think I was just following the same route."

There had been a few ships heading in their same direction, but nothing noteworthy. If it were Logan, he'd choose a sailboat. They traveled faster than a cargo ship so it would be easy to pull ahead, anchor for a while, and then catch up again. But her concern that someone will set the bombs off early makes his heart twinge. Last he knew they had neither incentive nor timetable for this little fireworks show. "Early? Earlier than what?"

"If I had to guess? After we get to L.A." He must look as lost as he feels because she doesn't wait for him to ask the question. "Logan, if they wanted to blow up your ship, they wouldn't have hidden the bombs on the bodies. No one should've examined those victims until they were in the morgue. That's where they're going."

"The morgue," he repeats.

"Yeah, the morgue. In the basement of the FBI building in L.A. At the least? They'll kill several agents. At the worst? Structural damage." She staring at him, her eyes imploring for him to picture the aftereffects of such an act.

If the bombs detonate now, they'd kill a grand total of twelve souls. Much more they'd gone off in the morgue. But the sinking feeling in his stomach tells him lessening the damage isn't enough. "Just spit it out, Veronica. What's the plan? Are they sending help?"

"No. It would take too long and ruin the primary objective." Veronica's hesitation comes through in her tone, "Neutralize the threat before he, or _they_ , figure out we know. Which means I need to disconnect all the bombs as soon as possible."

_They want her to handle those things? Line drawn right fucking here._

He puts his hands on his hips and backs up a step, his back flush against the wall in a pose of forced casualness. "Because you've become an explosives expert in the last ten years? Tell them it's above your pay grade and they can fuck off." All the orders he's had to give over the past decade have been written or mimed. He's almost proud to note the finely-honed authority he's developed comes blaring through his voice anyway.

All it gets him with Veronica is a sigh of forced patience. "We're not talking red wire, blue wire here. I just have to take the batteries out of the pagers—"

She pulls the ringing phone out of her pocket, and her end of the conversation is a series of '"Yes, sir" and "No, sir" between long periods of silence. Her laptop is still on the floor and she drops down to it. Logan watches her, involved in making plans and answering questions. She's intent, professional. Busy.

_All that needs to be done is taking the batteries out of the pagers. If you do that part, she can stay out here. It's the safest you can make her, under the circumstances._

_You want me to handle bombs. Move around corpses. Are you fucking kidding me?_

_Fine, Dickless. Put a message in a bottle to Gai. Something like, "Gee, I'm real sorry your mom blew up, Ricky."_

He can do this. For her, for Gai, and for himself. An act of redemption, if you will; likely written for him when he ran away all those years ago. It's debatable whether that decision was made out of cowardice or self-sacrifice – he'd answer differently depending on which day you asked.

But if running away was a choice, this has the hands of the Moirai all over it. Those goddesses of fate are fickle bitches - callous hags without an ounce of fairness among them.

They didn't put Veronica on his ship for a mere reconciliation, nor so Logan can become a minor participant in his son's life. No - the first was an inducement, the second a prize in the offing if, and only if they run this gauntlet. And survive.

Oddly, this realization replaces every trace of his panic with a strong resolve. He and Veronica will defeat this…terrorist? extremist? Trashcan Man? and they'll do it together.

Veronica finishes her call and stands up, pulling gloves out of her pocket. Her laptop dings to let her know she has a new message, but she ignores it when Logan takes the gloves out of her hands.

"You've got people to talk to. I'll get started on this and check in with you in a little while."

She frowns and reaches for the gloves, her mouth turning down in irritation when he raises them out of her reach. "Logan I can't ask you to—"

"You didn't," he tells her as he pulls the smooth, purple latex tight over his larger hands. Fortunately the gloves had been big on her, so his moment of gallantry isn't ruined with an OJ replay.

"No, I mean I _can't._ You're a civilian. Your safety is my priority and I can't put you at risk."

He smirks at the irony of this. He'd been safe for the past eleven years, since he'd given up his identity and started his new life. Her presence had already put him at risk of being found by a Russian madman. The bombs were the least of it. "You said it was easy, just pulling batteries. Were you lying?"

"No, but it's still not your job."

"Sure it is. You're on my ship."

She narrows her eyes at him. "I already told you it's mine, for the duration of this case anyway." Her laptop dings again, splitting her attention between him and whoever is trying to get a hold of her. He steps a few feet closer to the freezer door.

Her phone rings Logan can see her hand reach for it, and the tension leave her shoulders in defeat, even if she won't admit it yet. "Logan, I can handle this. I just need a few minutes…"

The computer chimes again, a tinny accompaniment to her frustrated groan. Logan laughs and takes the last step, reaching out to grab the door handle. "Then consider it a," he pauses for effect, tilts his head and blinks his eyes in a flirting manner, "favor."

He has her. The way her eyes soften and she's unable to keep her mouth from turning up at the corners, he knows she's done fighting him. She sighs and shakes her head. "Well, well, Mr. Echolls. Whatever did I do to deserve such a kindness?"

He winks, "You kind of had me at you're the mother of my child."

Veronica snickers and reaches in her back pocket, pulling out the phone that's ringing again. "Just a minute," she answers and covers the receiver, not even bothering with a 'hello' before she gives Logan her attention again. "Wow. Tell me how many favors that gets me so I can use them wisely."

"Hmm…" he pretends to consider, scooping up the coat where it lays by the door, "favors of this caliber? A hundred should cover it."

She purses her mouth in thought. "When Gai was two he spilled an entire container of fine-grain glitter in my car. The kind that's impossible to clean up, and sticks to the skin. Add that to my earlier sex tape and pregnancy, the rest of my senior year everyone thought I worked as a stripper."

Remembering the Seventh Veil girl's propensity for glamming up with body-glitter, Logan grimaces. But some color has returned to Veronica's cheeks, matching the pink-lipped grin she's biting back that lacks any resentment. "Okay, a hundred thousand favors. Now let me get to work. You can file a formal complaint with the grievance department for anything else."

She chuckles, but turns serious again. This time it's her tilting her head, but not for affect. "Logan, thanks. It helps, to know you're in this with me."

In that moment, despite everything, he wouldn't want to be anywhere else. It's unfathomable to imagine her doing this by herself.

"Yeah, what are friends for, right?"

Veronica lets out that familiar, lopsided smile. "Womb to tomb." She winces as soon as the words leave her mouth, "Though I'd appreciate if you didn't take that last part literally tonight." She tells the person on the phone to hold on one more second, then says, "I'll turn out the lights and hide under the stairs. That way if someone comes down here, I'll see them first. Let me know you if you need anything."

* * *

Approaching the first cadaver, Logan squats down. The pistol at his back slides up irritatingly so he shoves it in his coat pocket. It'll be easier to grab than reaching under the bulk of the jacket, should he need it.

Until now he'd been removed from this, standing behind Veronica and taking only a couple brief glances at the dead. After a few deep breaths and colorful curses he works up the nerve to unzip the black, shiny bag and peel it open. Inside is a woman. Middle aged, dressed in a white uniform common to a yacht crew member.

So, choice: lift the body and do this by touch, or roll it to the side?

Rounded shoulders and arms means it's a balancing act to keep the body on its side while working out the bomb. Also, calling them stiffs at this point is a misnomer. The corpses are cold, not frozen. He has to put his hand underneath the woman's backside and shoulder, lift and push. Then he supports her with one hand while his other pulls up enough clothes to get at the bomb and reverse everything to put her down gently.

With the next body he finds that lifting is quicker, but comes with its own grab bag of issues - the worst when his face is only inches from the cadaver's. The first victim he disarms this way is a man with large pores, skin cratered along his cheeks, and untrimmed nose hairs. The man's eyes are mercifully closed, but his mouth is open and the smell of rot escapes with the movement. It's a foul reminder that these poor people weren't found until several hours after their deaths.

_Don't think. Don't breathe. Close your eyes. You just need to feel._

The bomb is secured inside the shirt at the man's back. It takes dexterity and strength to untuck the shirt and pull out the device while keeping the body elevated, but it can be done fast; his job doesn't need finesse.

Whoever hid the things so well had to work a lot harder to ensure a casual inspection wouldn't turn up the explosives. It makes sense that, given the frigid room, the job took three nights to complete.

By the fifth body, his nausea trumped by a creepy sensation. The room is too quiet, the hum and crackle of the cooling unit sounding more and more like the soundtrack to a horror film. The crescendo is when he has to entirely lift a woman's dress to get at the device secured by her bra. It's that or undo the thirty tiny buttons than run the length of her dress, and he just can't take the time. The sense of violation isn't helped by the discovery that her undergarment choices weren't modest.

He sheds the jacket. The work of moving around the heavy bodies is keeping him warm enough, and flop sweat brought on by anxiety over handling live bombs is sticky. The work requires no thought though, just unzip, lift, grope, extract. He shoves the batteries into the giant pockets of the jacket lying by his knees and leaves the bomb in with the body. In an attempt to occupy his brain while his hands do their job, he searches his mind for a distraction.

All he comes up with is a rock song his dad had played ad nauseam when preparing for 'The Long Haul.' The source is distasteful, and he can't remember the last few verses, but he sings it anyway since it's better than the alternative silence.

 _Looking out the window, the trees are getting closer it seems._  
Thinking 'bout you Darling.  
Adding up the cost of these dreams.

_Strapped to this projectile, just a blink ago I was back in school._   
_Smoking by the gym door, practicing my rock-star attitude_

_And I'm scared shitless of what's coming next._   
_I'm scared shitless, these angels I see in the trees are waiting for me._

The song is almost tuneless; not a shanty that sets a rhythm, but it helps – though the 70s obsessed DJ in his head needs a serious talking to. When he gets to end of the first row, he heads up the second, repeating the song for what must be the twentieth time. By the mid-point his hands have a difficult time gripping; even the jacket he put back on isn't enough and he knows he needs to take a break and get warmed up. The room is just too damn cold.

Entering the dark hallway he sees Veronica scrunched under the stairs, lit up by the display on her keyboard. She looks up when he comes out, the question in her eyes but she asks it anyway. "Where are we?"

"Halfway, but if I don't take a break, it'll be like I stepped in liquid nitrogen. Then one blast of the shotgun and I'll break into chunks. What about you?"

She turns back to her keyboard and keeps typing. "I think the shotgun thing wouldn't end well, frozen or not. They've put a block on Petturi's phone and email accounts. If he's in collusion with anyone else in the FBI, they can't tip him off. They're also putting together what we need at the dock."

Logan ducks under the stairs and sits next to her, reading the instant message conversation she has in progress on her screen. "So they haven't found anything linking him to all of this?"

"Nothing yet, but it doesn't rule him out. I'm just floating theories while I wait for final confirmation of what they want from me once we get into port." She types the word 'Carabineros' after a question about possible conspirators.

He frowns at her. "You think Chile's national police force is involved?"

Veronica glances up at him. "Not the entire police force. But they were first on scene and helped load. It would be easier to pull this off if some of them were in on it."

As she keeps typing Logan puts his head against the wall and wiggles his fingers. The blood is moving a little freer in his hands as he warms up. When Veronica sets the laptop to the side, he turns to look at her, her face half dark and half light, like the contrasting sides of the moon. "Do you ever miss the boring days of cheating spouses and missing mascots?" he asks.

She pulls up her knees to rest her elbows on and clasps her hands in front of her. Her laugh is low. "Was the PI business ever that benign? I think those cases just paid the bills while I chased down murderers and rapists."

Logan grimaces, not appreciating the joke. "Good point, at least from what I remember. What about after I left town?"

"I had a few calm years." She gives a little smile. "My dad grounded me to office work while I was pregnant, and then the least risky cases after Gai was born. I didn't argue; I had enough to handle between school and raising a son."

"Did Neptune become the purported safe haven?" The ideal picture their city council painted never jibed with the town he lived in.

"Lord, no," she laughs. "The Fitzpatrick's got complete freedom while Vinnie was sheriff, and it took my dad four years to get enough evidence to bring in the feds and take them down. None of which he told me about until after all the arrests."

There's pride in her face when she looks at him, and a little something else. "Were you jealous?" he asks.

Her eyes turn to slits and she shakes her head, chuckling. "As green as the shamrock Liam tried to tattoo on my face."

"Yeah, that's not funny." Some things he'll never be able to laugh about. Walking into The River Stix and finding her pinned down on that pool table is one of them. If his gun had been loaded Liam wouldn't have walked away from that encounter.

"Not as funny as all the unicorn jokes I've made since Mercer's sentencing, but –"

"Veronica!" The surprise in his tone makes her roll her eyes. She doesn't have to point it out for him to remember all the cracks he made about his dad being a murder, and his mom showing up bloated and bug eyed in a fishing net. While he doesn't own the patent on dark humor, it still surprises him, coming from her. Something he's too tired to deal with right now.

He's still within the soft confines of his coat, cushioned against the hard wall at his back. The little he can see goes muzzy when he yawns, and his eyes squint shut. "What about now? Do you like what you do?"

The laptop next to her makes that annoying message sound again. "Yeah," she answers distractedly as she scoops it up. "Well enough. The investigation is varied, and sometimes it's even fun. I'm usually not dealing with murder or, um..."

He's lost her to an email, but he needs a couple more minutes before he goes back in the cold. The comparative warmth of the hallway seeps into his skin, relaxing muscles he's kept tight for too long now. The room is dark and their corner under the stairs cozy.

This time he doesn't read over her shoulder. His head rests against the wall behind him; she'll let him know if something important comes up.

* * *

_The hammock moves under his cheek, prompting Logan to open his eyes. A small room, lined with full bookshelves. Two large picture windows meet in one corner, lighting up a small table covered in painting paraphernalia, a stool, and an easel. The canvas resting there depicts a half-painted portrait, the background of a large lilac bush completed and vivid. A face is outlined but not yet finished, and he's too far away to make it out on the photograph that's pinned on the side._

_Weird. Eva doesn't paint people._

_The faint scent of vanilla reaches him, making his stomach growl in interest. He has to turn his head to see the kitchen doorway, and in the process is delighted to note the roof has completely disappeared from their house. The blue, almost cloudless sky forms a canopy even more appealing than the wood beams._

_From this angle, the most he can see of the kitchen is a corner of the cabinets and a tiny triangle of floor. A shadow moves over it; humming sounds and clattering pans indicates the presence of someone else._

_Eva, baking. A cake, cookies – something sweet from the smell of it. What a luxurious debate: give into the desire to sleep again or go in to steal a fingerful of batter? He's just decided on the first when the shadow moves again._

_It's her, standing almost as tall as the doorway. She is impossibly beautiful. The dress is a loose-fitting jersey - the one that has such a wild, colorful print you have to look close to notice some of the variations are due to spattered paint. Her waist-length, straight black hair is pulled back, making her high cheekbones and strong jawline even more apparent._

_In her hand is a round spoonful of cookie dough, and she's holding it out in offering. "You want some?" she asks, purposely pronouncing the 'y' of 'you' with a soft 'j' sound because he finds it sexy._

_He chuckles, but bypasses the opportunity to answer her innocent question with an innuendo. Instead he holds out his hand and beckons. "Bring it over here."_

_She does, padding softly across the wooden floors, the new varnish shiny under her feet. They've perfected this, the subtle balance required to get two of them in the hammock without tipping it over. Her solid form nestles against his side, one long leg thrown across his hips. She places the spoon in his mouth but the dough is tasteless and disappears at once from his tongue. He removes the utensil and throws it to the floor._

_Their heads are turned toward each other and he studies her features, memorizing them all over again. "It's good to be home," he says._

_Eva frowns, "And you be home?"_

_He laughs and kisses her nose, stretching his arm to pull at her hip, settling her more solidly over him. "Sure feels like it."_

_She opens her mouth and whispers, "Logan," all trace of her accent gone. The fingertips that brush his cheek are incongruously cold when he expected her usual warmth._

The sunlit room fades, taking Eva with it and leaving a hollow feeling in his belly. His head weighs a thousand pounds, impossible to lift despite the rise and fall of the hard thing his cheek is resting on.

"Logan." A voice reaches out to him from the dark, from the past, letting him know he's still dreaming; the cold fingertips trace his cheek again. "Logan, wake up."

"Hmph?"

"Logan, come on. Just hang in with me a little longer."

The hard thing under his cheek moves again. _A shoulder, it's a shoulder._ His head falls forward, weighed down by sleep and gravity. With extreme effort he's able to lift it up, but his eyes are dry and having a hard time staying open.

"Fine. Sleep. But when we blow up I'm telling my dad."

 _Blow up? Veronica. Ship. Bodies. Bombs. Tell her dad? Fuck, Keith Mars is still scary._ Logan sniggers and leans forward, using his fingertip to rub his eyes open. The euphoric world of his dream has disappeared, replaced by this scary-ass reality. "I'm up. I'm up. Anything new?" He works his feet under him. The wall works for balance as he rises to a crouch and gets out from under the stairs.

"Zilch with Petturi," she offers. Her voice drops and she gets up, standing in front of him. "When we get to the dock it's going to look like there's a semi and just a few agents to load the bodies. But, the place will be crawling with feds. They're taking everyone into custody as quickly and quietly as possible."

"What," he clears his throat noisily, trying to dislodge a lump that's trying to cut off his airway. But really, he should have understood this would end with him in handcuffs. Which is fine as long as his name doesn't hit the news. He's glad the only light is a faint glow from her laptop so she can't easily see his face. "What did you say about me?"

"Everything." She grabs his hand and moves a bit closer. "Logan, I had to give them the names of everyone on the crew, and the truth will come out when they fingerprint you. I wanted to make it clear you're the one who first noticed something was off with the victims, and that I trust you."

Those three little words shouldn't spread a warm feeling through his belly, not in the middle of this fiasco. They shouldn't make him feel a little drunk with giddiness, either. Doesn't stop them from doing it though.

In thanks, Logan squeezes the hand that's holding his. "Did you tell them about Diego, and the ring?"

"No. I've gotten pretty good at reading people and he's either the best actor in the world, or had nothing to do with the rest of this. I thought we could leave him out of it, don't you?"

As relieved as he is for his friend, his grin feels disingenuous. He lets go of her hand and runs his fingers through his shortened locks. "Lucky Diego. So, they're okay with me helping you? You know, since I'm the poster child for mayhem and all that."

_Will there ever be an occasion my past doesn't bite me on the ass? I'm surprised there's anything left there to sit on._

She shrugs but her shoulders stay too high, showing the nonchalant move is false. "There might have been a few threats along the lines of if I'm wrong, it's not just my life but my career I'm risking. Guess which one they think is more important?"

"Then I guess I better prove you right and get back in there. It's," he pushes the button to light up his watch face, "three forty-five. I don't know if I have time to finish all these by myself."

"Just do your best. I need a little longer, then I should be able to lend a hand."

* * *

Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. He shouldn't be obsessing over the time, but he doesn't want to be in here alone anymore. Even the words from that stupid song are escaping him. Every bit of cold flesh he touches is burnt upon his hands. Each face he's come close to is so entrenched in his memory they're sure to appear in his nightmares. The only bright side is that he can narrow down his new career options to _anything_ that doesn't involve dealing with the dead.

Worse, is that the number of bodies compared to the number of minutes they have left may not work out. He tries to hurry, but his hands are stiff again. The fine work required to unzip bags, release the catches on clothing, and open the battery hatch on the pagers is difficult. Taking time out to stick his hands in his armpits feels like a waste, though a necessary one.

Only six bodies are left when he hears a sound at the door. Hope surges in his throat that, with her help, they'll get this done in time. But it dissipates when she doesn't come in, and he has to keep working. Alone.

Finally, an interminable ninety seconds later, though it feels closer to ten minutes, the door opens. Veronica enters, but her hands are gloveless. And raised. The angry look on her face makes his smartass remark die on his tongue, and he could swallow it when he spots the gun raised above her head.

She takes three steps inside and he can see behind her. The hallway is still dark, but the light in the freezer is bright enough to make out Vincente give her a hard shove.

_Vincente. He's new, a stranger. Free rein of the ship at night. So easy for him._

But it wouldn't have been too easy. The navigator has to check in with the captain or helmsman repeatedly, letting him know how the engines are faring and monitoring their course. He would have to have been on hand to give bathroom and food breaks to both Diego and Winston. Which means to pull this off, and not be observed making repeated visits below deck, Vincente has to be one stealthy motherfucker.

Logan jumps to his feet, almost kicking the head of the woman he just disarmed.

"Monk?" Vincente's face is that of a livid man. "Well, I shouldn't be surprised. Give a man his first taste of pussy in ten years, he'll do anything to keep getting it."

Veronica's pressing her lips together, shaking her head just the slightest bit.

Despite the ball of rage that forms in his stomach Logan hangs his head forward and raises it. It's the best approximation of a nod he can sneak in; he won't speak if she's thinks it will give them any advantage.

The room is silent as Vincente analyzes the scene, his eyes stopping at the woman Logan was just working over. The bomb is lying open, the back of the pager open.

"You fucker," Vincente spits out. "Do you have any idea how much planning this took? What you've done to —" He takes in a deep breath and shakes his head. "Right. Okay, you, Monk. Hands up. And you, Fed. Move over by your boyfriend there."

The coat is considerably heavier than usual, the pockets weighed down with over a fifty batteries. And the pistol. Despite the coat, a chill that's not entirely due to the temperature spreads from Logan's hands to envelop his torso. Chances are that by gun or by bomb, this will end in bloodshed.

Veronica breath is coming in shallow gasps as she tiptoes around the bags, careful not to step on anyone. Instead of standing to his side, she moves in front of Logan and presses close. Strangely close. Her back is flush with his chest, her backside pressing to almost grind against his pelvis.

_Okay… strange time to be getting your freak on… oh._

The hard bulge of her small gun, hidden by the folds of her shirts, pushes against him. So she's still armed, and he has the best chance of taking advantage of that, being behind her. He could have it out in a second, given the right opening.

A blast of cold air pushes out of the vent closest to their heads, sending a shiver through each of them. "He turned the temperature all the way down," Veronica informs him, loud enough that Vincente hears her over the other noises in here.

"Yeah, for a good reason. Sorry lady, no cuddling allowed. Step away from each other. This ain't no love story we're filming in here."

As long as the gun is pointed at them, neither he nor Veronica can make a move other than the ones they're ordered to. Veronica steps to his right. Logan chances a full look at her face, to see how she is handling this, and is gratified to see she's still pissed. If she had the power to incinerate with her eyes, Vincente would be a pile of ash by now.

But other things Logan notices as well, proof that she didn't end up at the business end of a gun without a fight. Her left ear is deep red, darkening more as a bruise forms, and her right pointer finger is bent at a slight angle, and swollen. Broken and disjointed fingers are nothing new to a seaman, and he knows it's going to hurt like a son of a bitch soon, if it doesn't already. Good luck to her using a gun in the meantime.

_Which gets you off the plate, Veronica, and means I'm up._

"Okay, we do this fast. How many bombs are left?" Vincente asks.

Logan folds down four fingers, leaving six standing. It might benefit them to lie, but he can't see how.

"Six!" Vincente mutters some indecipherable cursing. They all share a moment of quiet while he thinks, his face screwing up painfully. "What's waiting at the dock?"

Veronica is quiet, her glare saying "Fuck you" very eloquently. The cocking of the gun makes its point, though. She spits out, "A battalion of feds, an arrest, a conviction, and the rest of your life in a federal pen."

Admiration and chagrin run through Logan. She still hasn't learned to be gentle with people holding a gun at her head, but she's still the ballsiest person he's ever known.

"You think so?" Vincente laughs, low and hollow. "Well, let's just say I have my own plans about that. Now, strip from the waist up, and throw me your clothes."

They follow orders, but only after Veronica gets off another glare to let their captor know she's doing it under duress. The heavy _thunk_ when his big coat falls at Vincente's feet makes Logan wince.

_The pistol. In the pocket._

Vincente keeps the gun pointed on them and bends down to dig in a pocket of the jacket, investigating the source of the noise. He comes up with a handful of batteries, from the pocket _not_ occupied by the pistol. "Should make you put these back in, motherfucker. You have no idea how much you've screwed me. Allow me to return the favor."

Logan watches, helpless, as Vincente pulls on the coat and backs toward the door, taking the rest of their clothes with him.

_He's going to lock us in here. Half-naked. Temperature control in the hallway._

Since they're only thirty minutes from help their chances are better in here than risking getting shot. Knowing that doesn't keep Logan's weight from shifting back and forth between his feet; all his self-control goes into squelching the urge to attack this son of a bitch.

"M-Malachy, d-d-don't," Veronica admonishes, reading his intention as well as warning him to stay quiet. Why she cares about keeping up the ruse at this point, he doesn't know.

Vincente's hand reaches back to grab the edge of the door and pull it fully open. "Yeah, dummy. Don't. You—" Two more steps and he stops.

"Hands up," growls a deep voice. When Vincente doesn't respond his head is pushed forward, and the voice is heard again. "We can check for brains by you either putting your hands up, or having them spill out of you. Your choice."

Vincente's cocky expression is absent, replaced by one of pure rage. Logan tenses, wondering if the man's about to pull a Butch and Sundance, getting off at least one shot before he dies himself. Every muscle is drawn up, ready to jump in front of Veronica.

Thankfully, Vincente chooses option one. His hands go up, level with his head, and the person behind him relieves him of the gun.

Trevor Petturi pokes his head around Vincente, stares at them for a moment, and sighs. "How about the two of you get dressed. Then maybe you can come out here and tell me what the fuck is going on?" Vincente is yanked backward and the door swings to stop an inch from being closed.

* * *

Relief relaxes Logan's spine, and he slumps forward to grab his knees, a breathy chuckle working its way out. Veronica's body lays warm across his back and, for a second, he thinks she's hugging him, as exalted as he is that they're alive.

Her hand clamps over his mouth, cutting off the sound of his laughter. The warmth breath of her whisper tickles his ear. "Don't! J-J-Just shut up."

"Why?" he asks, so low he's not even sure she'll be able to hear him.

The press of her body leaves his back. "R-Reasons. I'll t-t-tell you l-later."

Reasons that could mean she has more information than she's sharing. But that's the paranoid side of his brain talking, the one that's kept him hidden successfully for years. More likely, she still thinks there's a chance they can keep his true identity a secret, at least from the outside world. Which only works if he keeps up the same mute sailor persona he adopted.

Their shirts are still lying near the door and she scuttles her way over to them, leaving him to follow. Until now, he'd taken care not to look directly at her out of a sense of chivalry. However, she's not shy about turning to face him as she works at pulling on her t-shirt.

First, and he hates that mind instantly goes there, he sees no sign of the tattoo she'd mentioned before. Second, seeing the lines of definition in her torso and biceps, he can now see the extra weight she's put on is muscle. It's a fetching sight in contrast to the lacy magenta bra she wears.

The effect stops short of being sexy given the large red mark on her stomach, the size of a foot. Her shaky fingers are having trouble opening the hem of her shirt to put it on. She manages and tosses his shirts at him.

Logan waits a couple of beats before following her out the door. Despite the cold and the shivering, he wants to finish the job he started. As long as there's an armed bomb no one is safe. But the freezer is growing ever colder, he's without his jacket, and an armed FBI agent has ordered him into the hallway. Fiddling with explosive devices could look very bad at this moment.

The raised voices of Veronica and Petturi can already be heard, and Logan's footsteps are lighter than they've been in hours. They have their bad guy, Veronica has trained backup, and they probably won't blow up anytime soon.

"… why the fuck didn't you tell me there was a problem?" Petturi angrily questions. The overhead lights are now on and his face shows florid under them. Veronica looks obstinate and capable as she centers her feet and returns her gun to the holster on her hip. She's got this.

"I was following orders, Trevor. You have a problem, take it up with my boss."

Logan turns returns the thermostat to its earlier temperature. He looks to Vincente, who is leaning insolently against the wall, his hands raised in front of him. The most time Logan had spent with the man was the first day of this misadventure. He had supervised Vincente and a few others in lining the freezer with visqueen and then loading the bodies. Quiet and a good worker was his assessment. With the distraction of first the corpses, and then Veronica, Logan hadn't paid any more attention to him.

Now he does. Thick body and short, stubby fingers. Late-twenties, dark blonde hair, a small scar along his chin. Remarkable eyes, a warm, glowing color reminiscent of liquid amber. Skin three shades darker than his own, though it's unclear if the pigment is due to ethnicity or the sun.

"Yeah, you bet I will. Along with a few other things," Petturi warns.

"Like what? That this was your case, and it happened right under your –" Veronica yells, stopping when Logan stomps his foot.

Her irritated expression is thrown his way, but softens when she sees it's him trying to get her attention. "L—Malachy, sorry, did you need something?"

Logan points to the freezer and holds up six fingers, reminding her of the live bombs still in there. His secondary motive is to have a reason to reclaim his jacket and his gun before Vincente realizes it's in the pocket.

"What?" She closes her eyes and gives a breathy grunt. The finger on her right hand is more swollen, her pain evident as she attempts to cradle the injured hand with the other. "Right. Good idea. Take off the jacket and hand it to Monk," she orders Vincente.

"No. Monk, don't move," Petturi orders, his gun moving back and forth to include both Logan and Vincente. "I still don't know what the hell is going on, Mars-Zare. How about, before your newly groomed boy toy makes another move, I get a little enlightenment."

Logan steps back, his hands held high. Gone is the golly-gee-wilikers politician side of Petturi that's been with them for most of this trip. Now he's the petulant brat that showed his face briefly once before, when talking about a reprimand he'd received in his job.

Veronica's working her ass off to save their lives and all Petturi can do is throw out insinuations. Something long dormant stirs up inside of Logan. It won't do anyone any favors to act on it, not against an armed federal agent. The best he can manage at this moment is a pointed glare at the bastard.

Veronica explains the situation succinctly, leaving out any history she and Logan have or his real name. She boils it down to the two of them noticing something was off with the bodies, and how a little exploration turned up the bombs. Logan listens closely to memorize all the details she gives. If he ends up on the wrong side of an interrogation table, their stories should match so Diego is left out of it.

"…so there are still six intact bombs in there. Malachy has disarmed the rest, and he's volunteering to finish the job."

"And I'm supposed to just take your word for that. For all of it."

Veronica shoots a glare at Petturi, crabbiness making her words barbed. "No, Trevor. You can go in there and finish the job yourself. But if you're going to do that, Monk'll have to be the one holding the gun on Vincente." She holds up her injured hand in illustration.

"Or, and this is just for shits and giggles, I consider the possibility the two of you are in on this. Maybe Monk is trying to finish the job you started."

Logan is starting to understand why Veronica hadn't wanted to bring anyone else into it when the ring came up missing. Things went much faster when you just followed her faithfully. None of this accomplishes either getting his gun away from Vincente, or putting them out of danger of the bombs.

Veronica sighs, exasperated. "Trevor, do you have any handcuffs?"

"What—," Petturi starts to ask.

"Give me the goddam handcuffs Trevor or I'm going to reach my hand down your throat, find your intestines and use them for rope!"

Logan was at Diego's for dinner once when the man's wife, Emilia, dropped a cast iron skillet on her foot. The kids were running around the kitchen and bumped into her, causing the mishap. Despite what turned out later to be a broken toe, she still took up the skillet and screamed threats at children while she chased them out of the room. Pain and impatience brought out a violent undertone Diego said he'd only heard when she was in labor.

Veronica's tenor sounds exactly the same as Emilia's had, making Logan smile despite the circumstances. If he'd had any trouble picturing her as a mother, he didn't now.

Pouting but compliant, Petturi plucks the silver bracelets out of his back pocket and slaps them into her hand. "Now keep an eye on this bomb-happy bastard while I frisk and cuff him," she orders

Her steps are a little stiff, common after the adrenaline of a fight wears off and you feel your injuries – something Logan remembers well. Reaching Vincente, she orders him to take off the jacket. Slowly.

Vincente does as he's told. Once the gun is out of Vincente's immediate reach, Logan relaxes a bit. He's very aware that Petturi's weapon is still pointed in his direction, so he merely uses the toe of his shoe to move the coat further away on the floor.

"Now keep your hands up, spread your legs, and lean against the wall," Veronica demands.

Vincente blinks his eyes innocently and doesn't move. "I _said_ ," Veronica starts, leaning in closer to him.

"Oh, you were talking to me?" Vincente asks, turning and spreading as she requested. "Sounded more like the kind of thing you'd say to Monk. You know, so you could better—"

Logan doesn't give a fuck that there's a bullet with his name on it in Petturi's gun. He's beyond sick of hearing these men make accusations regarding Veronica. He reaches out a hand and smacks the back of Vincente's head so hard it hits the wall and bounces back. The move is so satisfying he does it again, even harder.

Petturi and Veronica are both shouting at him, but the blood in his ears is rushing so hard their voices are indecipherable. Veronica's left hand gets inside the neck of his shirts and pulls him back, away from Vincente. The movement calms him, or maybe it's the blood now trickling into Vincente's dazed face that does it.

Logan expects Veronica to be angry, but instead she sounds wryly amused. "Knock it off, Malachy. I got this."

He looks down at her, a smarmy grin working its way onto his face. This mystery is resolved. Help is 20 minutes and a dock away. Their perp won't get a chance to warn anybody, set off the bombs himself, or escape. The urgency that had driven them all night is gone.

Short of disconnecting those six bombs, Logan has nothing left to do. Starting fights each time Veronica's honor is impugned is fun, but probably going to cause more harm than good. It wouldn't be the first time.

He throws up his hands and backs up, not making any motions that could be misconstrued by Petturi. Having made it this far, it might be nice to end the night without a bullet in his brainpan. Squish.

Veronica squats down and pats Vincente's legs, up one and down the other. Logan's eyes stay fixated on her, ready to keep Vincente in line if he acts up again. Black work boots, the laces repaired with knots. Stained light-green cargo pants, hiding a knife and sheath under one leg. Up to the front pockets, one empty, the other containing a money clip with what appears to be several hundred American dollars. Back pockets, one with a wallet, the other a bright yellow phone. A belt with another knife sheath, which is a common thing among people who work on boats. You never know when you have to cut a rope.

Vincente's t-shirt is white, faded with a smattering of holes at the shoulder seam. The design on the back is cracked and washed out, but the year and words 'Copa America', as well as the team names of Uruguay vs. Brazil are still legible. When Veronica's hands go under his shirt and across the ribs, Vincente flinches and giggles.

Petturi's gun raises in tandem with his voice. "Don't move, Vince."

It's the 'Vince' that triggers it.

The entire time Petturi's been on this ship he's been smiling and overtly friendly. By the first day he'd introduced himself to everyone and made a point of learning their name. The previous night, though, he messed up Vincente's, and was severely corrected by Diego. Now he'd done it again.

_As if he's used to calling him Vince. The Copa America – Petturi had a sweatshirt from that – the team names were washed out, but I would bet my life that flags were the same. I saw the two of them talking, alone on the deck a couple days ago. That's when I saw Petturi using a yellow phone._

He tries to shut down the tangent his brain is following. All these things, they're circumstantial. Messing up a name, shirts from a game thousands of people attended, two men who have the same color phone. Random coincidences that mean nothing.

Veronica handcuffs Vincente and scoops up everything she removed from him.

"Let me see the wallet and phone," Petturi orders. When she doesn't immediately comply, he snaps, "It's still my case, Veronica. I want to know who this guy really is."

_Vincente's the navigator. He's all over the ship at night. The engine room, the wheelhouse, bow watch. Distracting Diego with cribbage games, and Winston with… well, anything. Perfectly positioned to signal Petturi when it was safe to go below dec, and make sure no one saw him come back up._

She walks over to Petturi and hands him the wallet and phone, tucking the short knife into her pocket, and the long one into the back of her pants. While Petturi thumbs through the wallet, Logan takes advantage of the distraction and puts on his heavy jacket, the substantial weight of the pistol in his pocket a comfort.

He waits, keeping a wary eye on Vincente, handcuffed but not exactly rendered helpless.

Petturi holsters his gun and tucks the wallet into one back pocket, from the other pulling out a black phone and stashing Vincente's yellow one in its place. "So Veronica, your boss wanted me left out of all this. I guess we'll see what mine has to say about that," he sneers.

Veronica lips twitch when she looks at him, and Logan remembers what she said about Petturi's phone and email being blocked. She points her thumb toward the freezer and starts backing in that direction. "Go ahead and call him Trevor. But in the meantime Malachy and I will finish with the bombs."

She looks like she did the time Keith Mars caught them making out, with Logan's hand up her shirt – three parts wild for escape, one part trying to keep from cracking up. At the time Logan had shared her humor and found it even funnier when Keith forced that awkward dinner on them the next night.

This time he feels sick. The last bit has fallen into place. Trevor was using a yellow phone the other day, and now he has a black one. He could have two phones, granted, but a hunch tells Logan there's only one yellow phone on this damn ship, and was just passed back from Vincente to Petturi.

"Neither of you are touching another fucking thing, Veronica." Petturi, frustrated, hits a few more buttons, his first call not having gone through. "This isn't amateur hour, and I don't trust him any more than I do you. Stay right here and wait for the pros."

As Veronica opens her mouth in protest, the boat shudders to a stop - they've pulled into port a few minutes earlier than estimated. In moments this boat will be flooded with agents, everyone not carrying a badge put into shackles. Including Logan himself.

Petturi passes by him and grabs the bit of chain linking Vincente's handcuffs. He roughly yanks his prisoner off the wall and pushes him past Logan and toward the stairs. They're going to get off the ship.

_Don't do this. Don't do this. Don't do this._

Hunches. Veronica talked to him about them once, years ago. That absolute gut instinct you're right, even when a thousand reasons indicate otherwise. Logan thought he understood. But nothing he's ever experienced came close to what he's feeling right now.

That yellow phone holds the number that can be used to send a signal to thirty-two pagers. Pagers connected to thirty-two bombs, six of which are still active. Petturi fucking knows it because he's a part of it.

Whatever the original objective was, it's ruined. But if Petturi gets off this boat, with that phone in his pocket, the remaining live bombs are going to be activated. Then not only are all the bodies and the rest of the fuel in those canisters disappearing into the ether, so are any crew members or FBI agents nearby. Including he and Veronica.

Veronica catches his eye, all amusement gone. She's irritated and tired, pale from a long stressful night and likely pain from her injuries. There's worry in the way her brows are drawn together, but no trace of suspicion in her face. He's alone in this, with no time to explain things to her.

_You're guessing, and you're wrong. Don't fucking do this!_

The pistol is cold in Logan's hand. A heavy, sure mass of righteousness that he points at Petturi's back.

His voice comes out slightly shaky, but full of conviction. "Trust that if you take one more step, I'll have no problem shooting you."

* * *

The interrogation room was cold, and stark. The cell isn't much better. Larger than Logan's berth on the ship by half, and better appointed with a toilet and sink, but lacking in any decoration. The blue jumpsuit he's wearing doesn't offer enough warmth, nor does the thin blanket on the bed.

It didn't matter when he was sleeping, but now that he's awake boredom and anxiety are making him too aware of everything. Like how each of the tiles in the ceiling have 48 pinprick-sized holes. How he can hear the toilet above him flush, but no amount of yelling gets an audible response. How his arm aches under the bandage placed there, and the dried blood that has seeped through is shaped like the silhouette of a cat's head.

If he knew the time, or what day it was, this might be easier to take. But he hasn't seen a window or a clock since he entered this building and has no idea how long he slept. Even the meals don't seem to be following any order, scrambled eggs for one and French toast for the next. The brief human contact he's had since waking up, through the small slot in his door where the trays come and go, were one-sided. His questions went unanswered and worse, unacknowledged.

Not that it had gone much better when they'd crowded him into that white-walled room four agents. His demands for a lawyer were brushed off, as well his questions about Vincente, Petturi, and Veronica. The one phone call they'd granted him, right before they led him in here, had gone to Eva's voicemail.

The French toast he devoured hours ago, and now he's as hungry for food as he is answers. When he finally gets that lawyer, his list of complaints will read bitchier than 'The Catcher in the Rye'. _If_ he gets that lawyer, he amends. Shooting an FBI agent might guarantee he'll be entombed in this crypt forever, no matter how big of a lying, scheming bastard that FBI agent might be.

Logan resigns himself to trying to get rid of his pent up energy by using the floor space for reps of push-ups, sit-ups, squats. When that gets boring he switches to kickboxing. In the middle of a punch, a buzzer sounds and his door opens, bringing him instinctively into a fighter's stance. No matter what, someone is letting him out of this room right fucking now.

Veronica walks in with In-N-Out bags in one hand and a cell phone in the other. Of course her finger splint doesn’t deter her from taking his picture. Her smile teases as she affects an accent that drips with southern flair. “My daddy always said you’d end up wearing those prison blues.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Your feedback has been so kind and generous during this story. Know that each comment has been a kick in the ass I've dearly needed to keep going. And we're not done yet so I'm passing around the metaphorical hat again. Please, give what you can.
> 
> A/N: To nevertothethird and my sister - thank you for saving me from tripping multiple times, both over grammar and my own plot. I would not only be lost without either you, I would still think N'Sync had an H at the end.
> 
> A/N: For those who care, the song is Angels and Fuselage by The Drive-By Truckers. I don't love it but the lyrics were fitting.


	11. Reunion

Veronica walks in with In-N-Out bags in one hand and a cell phone in the other. Of course her finger splint doesn't deter her from taking his picture. Her smile teases as she affects an accent that drips with southern flair. "My daddy always said you'd end up wearing those prison blues."

Relief hits Logan hard. A flooding sensation runs through his knees, stomach, head and balls. The last time he saw her, his cheek was pressed into the cold steel floor of the boat and his hands cuffed behind his back. Agents swarmed into the small hallway below deck and five-foot-nothing Veronica became lost in them. The arresting agent yanked Logan to his feet, forced him up the stairs, off the dock and into a black van.

All he wants to do is grab her, pull her in, and make sure she's okay – an impulse he ignores. He's unsure about the rules regarding physical contact between agents and prisoners. Instead Logan clutches the back of his head and takes deep, measured breaths.

The smell from the In-N-Out bags hits his nose and saliva floods his mouth; an irritable creature in his belly morphs into a beast that demands to be fed, _now._ Since he knows she's okay Veronica's presence falls second to that dyspepsia-filled sack she's holding. Especially since, despite the smile, dark shadows underline her eyes and faint signs of worry line her forehead. Whatever they mean he can't face them on an empty stomach. "There better be Animal Fries in there, or I'm invoking the eighth amendment," Logan warns.

She rolls her eyes and moves to sit on one end of the narrow bunk, tosses the bags down beside her and unloads one. "Phsst. And a mustard-grilled three-by-three. What do you take me for?"

Logan straddles the other end of the bed and grabs the bag she hands him. The pain in his shoulder is a constant, dull presence. It's only when he moves unthinkingly, like now, that he's reminded of it. He hides the wince, a skill he learned long ago.

He unrolls the bag and lowers his head to draw in a huge whiff of greasy goodness. She's a quarter through her burger by the time he pulls his own out, reverently cradles it in his hands, and takes that first bite.

His teeth sink through soft bread, hit the flaky crust of the grilled side, then rip through meat and pseudo veggies. He bites off a hunk and chews, closing his eyes to better concentrate on the blended flavors. While In-N-Out doesn't make the best burgers, they're saturated with great memories: getting stoned with Dick and driving to San Diego a la Harold and Kumar; road trips with Veronica for a case; hitting the drive-thru with his mom after movie premiers while his dad went to the after parties.

"Wow. Do the two of you want to be alone or – "

"Shush," he manages through a mouthful before he swallows painfully, his eye twitching at the raw jab to his heart. "You're messing with a lovers' reunion."

Veronica snorts but lets him get through his burger and half of the Coke she hands him before she talks again. "So, I have news, good and bad. It's going to take me awhile to get through it and there's something I have to do first."

"Let me finish eating?" Logan offers. His attention is distracted by the glob of melted cheese, onions and Thousand Island dressing topping his fries. Veronica used her fork to mix hers up so every fry is coated. His strategy is to go at the good stuff on top, then ketchup the unadorned fries that remain. On the bottom of the bag are a couple of small, white packets. _Sweet._

The cheese is congealed, just as he likes it. He barely notices as Veronica gently places her soda cup on the floor. Another moment of silent worship is warranted before he digs in, which she interrupts by flicking the center of his forehead, hard. "Hey! What was that for?"

"For not telling me you suspected Petturi before you pulled a freaking gun on him." She settles back on the bed and shakes her head at him. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Logan's eyes fall to the enticing glob of food in front of him, getting cold. Oh well, they never were much on manners. He takes time to load up his fork, and then his mouth. "That it was time to stop thinking, and go in."

A snort of exasperation comes out Veronica's nose. She rolls her eyes and mutters, "I ask for an explanation, and he gives me Napoleon."

"I already told everything to the other feds. Don't you guys share?" The cheesy mess makes Logan's tongue stick to the roof of his mouth, morphing the 's' sounds into 'h's. But he'd been over it several times already and is sure he doesn't need to do it again.

"Yeah, I watched your interrogation tape, so I get why you suspected Petturi. But c'mon, you could've given me _some kind_ of sign."

The sweetness of the Coke pushes the oily coating down his throat and frees his tongue. "He was getting off the boat. That was the priority."

Veronica's mouth works as she searches for words, standing up to thrust her hands into her back pockets. "Okay, but did you have to shoot him?"

Logan shrugs and pushes more of the soggy fries in his mouth, feigning a nonchalance he doesn't feel. "I told him I was gonna shoot him."

_"Trust that if you take one more step, I'll have no problem shooting you."_

_It was wordy, and didn't have the panache of "Go ahead, make my day," but he hadn't had time to plan dialogue or plot this scene. Whatever- it worked. Petturi stopped where he was and turned around._

_Vincente twisted to stare at Logan. "What the fuck, Monk?"_

_"I thought you were mute?" Petturi's question overlapped Vincente's as both stared at Logan, incredulous._

_"What are you doing?" Veronica whispered beside him._

_"Petturi's in on it. Take his gun and his phones, Veronica."_

_Trevor Petturi looked between Logan and Veronica while they spoke, and his expression turned calculating. "Monk, put down the gun and let's talk about this," he cajoled. His eyes flitted and his feet shifted farther apart, ready for attack._

_Logan heard the familiar sounds of the ramp being unhooked, to roll out and let the waiting feds onto the boat. "You noticed, I'm not one for talking. Veronica, take his gun and phones – that yellow one belongs to him, by the way."_

_"But –"_

_He could hear voices outside and it sounded like the ramp had touched the dock. They were about sixty seconds away from an agent reaching the top of the stairs. Events would happen fast then, and Logan couldn't take the chance Petturi would get to finish this._

_"Now!" he snapped._

_Veronica jumped at the harshness in Logan's voice. Her tone was wondering, confused, as she walked toward Petturi. "Trevor, let me —"_

_Petturi stepped backward and reached for his firearm._

_Because of the confined space and steel walls, the gunshot resonated and drowned out the metallic clank of Petturi's revolver falling to the floor. Logan stared in fascination at the hole that appeared in Petturi's chest as he fell backward._

Logan's blasé attitude is belied by the shaky tenor in his question, "Is he okay? I mean," he swallows. "Is he dead?"

Veronica furrows her brow at him. "God, didn't anybody tell you?"

The fries no longer hold any appeal. He stabs the fork in them savagely and shakes his head, not trusting his voice. He had managed not to let this in. Until now. Horrific possibilities run through his mind – a clipped artery, shock, bone fragments piercing the heart.

Jesus, he wants to not care, but a man _is dead_. Because of him.

"Logan, he's fine." Veronica steps closer and touches his shoulder when he drops his head into his hands; his entire body shakes.

_Fuck, not a killer. I'm not a killer._

Gently, she pulls his head into her stomach and runs her fingers through his hair, uttering "shh" noises, even though he isn't making a sound. He grabs one of her hands and presses it against his cheek, wrapping his other arm around her waist. Logan ignores the pain that shoots through his wounded shoulder at the motion. His whole body is loose and ungrounded; the feel of her slight, strong frame under his arm gives a much-needed tether to stability.

The minutes pass as he calms and her comfort noises taper off. Before the moment can become awkward she gives his head a final stroke, squeezes the hand holding hers, and lets him go. Her arms cross as she backs up, reestablishing some unwritten, prescribed distance between them.

The space is necessary, given the tender footing of their new roles, if any, in each other's lives. Doesn't mean he can't hate it a little, though.

"Petturi's really okay?" he asks. _Let me hear it one more time._

"Yeah. He had to have a minor surgery, but he'll live. Though, I think soon he'll wish you were a better shot."

Years of practice made Logan sniper accurate, but neither she nor the other feds need to know that. At the last moment he'd tilted the gun away from Petturi's heart. Everything in that fraction of a second happened so slow there's no question he made a choice to wound, and not kill. "Why would he wish that?"

"Because, and it kills me to say this again," Veronica sparks a teasing grin. "You were right about Petturi. And cops don't fare well in prison."

Nobody had told Logan he was right. They grilled and drilled him but didn't answer any of his own questions. Which left him to second-guess himself and jump to every worst-case scenario; that's just how his life worked.

 _You were right._ Her words are music, the tenor and pitch of her brief statement a symphony in his head. However, they aren't enough to release the anxiety in his spine that makes his hands clench. Not yet. "How do you know?"

Veronica sighs and her mouth pulls down in bitterness. "We confirmed Vincente's been a low-ranking member of the Hitzig cartel for years. He's a bit player. Killing the agents and planting the bombs was all Petturi's idea. The FBI called him back to L.A., and he decided he needed an encore."

"Encore. Encore to what?"

She presses her lips together. "The details aren't important, but let's just say Petturi's been playing double-agent since the day he arrived in Chile. Referred to the FBI as two-faced bastards and used every chance to screw us over."

Veronica and Petturi's conversation over breakfast comes back to Logan, about an incident a few years ago. He can't remember the details but what he does recall involved Petturi, an AK47, and no backup. Petturi acted pissy because he got pats on the back for his actions, followed by an official reprimand and a reassignment to South America.

"Are you saying he helped gas thirty-two federal agents," Logan swallows at the pettiness behind such a heinous act, "and planned on bombing however many more for some fucked up form of retribution?"

She shrugs, but it's not the easy move of someone who doesn't care. Instead it's the weighted motion of those who show up late for an accident and can only look on in horrified resignation. "That and a hell of a lot of money."

He stands up, agitation making it hard to sit still. Money. Of course it's money. Wealth created a shield so Aaron could get away with child-abuse and murder. Gave Gory the means to hire hit men and bribe Grand Juries. This time it allowed Petturi to justify killing his own people.

Logan's life has been simple this past decade, his fortune mere numbers on a computer screen he glances at twice a year. Since buying his house eleven years ago he hasn't touched the funds from his trust. As if pretending they don't exist will keep him safe.

A look at the four solid walls containing him shows what a fool he's been.

_Fuck it. If I ever get out of here I'm building Eva an art studio, hiring Americo to sing at her birthday, and buying a Bugatti, with leather seats like my fine ass deserves. Get ready world, here comes another rich bastard._

He backs up to put himself in the corner, a feeble attempt to make his cell seem bigger. It's the thought of _if I ever get out of here_ that's got his finger hovering over the panic button.

"Yeah, okay, _Vincente_ says all this. So the fuck what? Can he prove it?"

Veronica frowns at the blustery challenge in his voice. "He doesn't have to."

"Hmmm, well as long as you're taking criminals at their word," Logan throws up his hands, "I'm completely and utterly innocent of all wrongdoing."

"Yeah, like that's ever been true. But, I meant we already have the proof. Thanks to you."

 _Yet, in here I still am._ "Ah, well, in that case, I expect my ticker-tape parade to begin at 3. Maybe I could get some new clothes? Something in black. Blue is so," he plucks an imaginary ball of lint off his sleeve and flicks it away, "gauche."

Her arched eyebrow and bitten-back smile have the effect of making him feel like a smartass teenager, instead of a grown ass man. Which doesn't bother him at all.

"I've got a personal stylist on speed dial. Shouldn't be a problem." Veronica walks over to plop herself on the edge of the bed, one leg drawn up under her chin. "Logan, I'm serious. Vincente was going to take the fall. There would have been no reason to investigate Petturi if you hadn't accused him…"

While Veronica talks Logan squelches the many opportunities to throw in a jibe or joke. His inner adolescent and snarky commentator are as curious for answers as he is: The texts on the yellow phone only referred to one name, 'Vincente'. They were filled with instructions and made it clear another boat was following theirs. The original plan was to dock and, in the confusion of moving the bodies, Vincente was to disappear and head to a local marina to rendezvous. When the bombs went off he would be the natural suspect. He had no fingerprints on file, his last name and address on his employment records were false, and steps were already in place to relocate him and his family to Columbia. The man would be a ghost.

An hour before they were due to reach L.A. Petturi, still paying the good fed, went to wake up Veronica. When he couldn't find her he enlisted Vincente's help. Monk also came up missing and their search of the ship narrowed it down to one possibility: below deck with the bodies. And the bombs.

They needed to go to plan B, one Vincente didn't know anything about until that moment.

Petturi ordered Vincente to lock Veronica and Monk in the freezer, by whatever means necessary. This was to make Vincente the culprit, thereby diverting any attention from Petturi, and leaving him free to still work for the cartel from inside the FBI.

Per the plan, while this happened Petturi would return to the poker game and give Vincente time to jump overboard. The rendezvous boat would pick him up. Petturi gave him his yellow, waterproof phone so the boat could locate him via GPS, and Vincente put it in his pocket.

Vincente followed orders like a good little cartel boy. Except Petturi made a last minute change, decided he wanted to come back the L.A. a hero. He made a big show of rescuing Veronica and Monk and, while they got dressed, explained the new, new plan, a Plan C, to Vincente. Effectively, that Vincente was going to prison for the bombs.

"Double crossed by a double crosser. Shocker. What ties the yellow phone to Petturi?"

"You. The key eyewitness. You saw him using it a couple days prior." Key eyewitness, not key suspect. _That's nice for a change_.

Logan runs this all through his mind, instinctively searching for holes. "Question, why did Vincente go along with it?"

"The cartel weren't relocating his mother and sister, they were holding them hostage. On Petturi's other phone, the black one, Petturi had an email. A video of the two women with guns pointed at their heads."

When he found out his family was in danger, Vincente had no choice but to go along with Petturi's every order.

"No wonder Vincente was so pissed. That explains why he beat up Petturi," Logan surmises.

_Vincente rushed over and kicked the fallen Petturi in the ribs. His curses were a mixed English, Spanish and German spew of hatred._

_Veronica jumped in to try and corral Vincente. The knife she'd tucked into her waistband tumbled to the floor and Vincente dropped to the ground, on top of it. His hands cuffed behind his back, he improvised by grabbing the knife and rolling over in an attempt to stab Petturi. During this he knocked Veronica to the floor and she fell on top of both of men. Petturi's groans were low, interspersed by footsteps pounding in their direction, above their heads._

_Logan looked for an opening to separate the three. Veronica squawked in pain about the same time the door above them opened up. Not caring about anything but her safety, Logan kept the gun ready in one hand while using the other to reach down. He got ahold of an arm and yanked Veronica out of the melee. Adrenaline rushed through his veins and he underestimated just how hard he had to pull. He didn't know Veronica managed to wrestle the blade from Vincente. She flew at him, knife in hand._

"Mmm hmmm." She scrunches up her nose kind of adorably. "Sorry about stabbing you."

He pushes off the wall and balances on the edge of his shoes. The lingering fear of watching her roll around with a man twice her size and a seven inch blade leeches some of the hilarity out this. But only some. Logan brushes away her concern with a flick of his hand.

"Eh. Given our history, it was inevitable."

Veronica chuckles and pulls her other leg up on the bed. "Yeah, but having it be an accident takes all the fun out of it."

With a need for some kind of action Logan shoves all the fast food garbage into the bags and throws them by the door. He'd had a hunch, and was right, according to Vincente. But…

His fingers scratch at his head. He worked up a sweat during the workout, and now that it's dry he's itchy. Or it's the sense of confinement that makes his skin feel like it doesn't fit. "Did Petturi confess? Otherwise, isn't it still just Vincente's word against his? He's not responsible for what people email him."

"I'll get there in a minute." Veronica bobs her eyebrows at him. "This time, _I'm_ right - greedy is hard to hide. The idiots did clean the corpses of all their money."

"Right. And Petturi, an American holding U.S. dollars, is really suspicious." The sarcasm lacing his voice goes with his rolling eyes.

A fleeting look of pain crosses Veronica's face before her mouth attempts to turn up in a smile. A smile that falls before it ever reaches her eyes. "One of the agents met his wife in college, while tending bar. She gave him a buck tip with her phone number on it and he's carried it in his wallet ever since." Her jaw tightens noticeably, "I showed it to the agent's wife; she confirmed it's hers."

A hollow sensation passes through Logan, mostly at the bleakness in Veronica's voice. He never knew she could sound like that. But he can't blame her; anyone would find it difficult to question a woman who just found out her husband is dead. That he was killed, in the line of duty.

 _Line of duty_.

The words Veronica used to tell him how Sam died echo through Logan's head. He understands, knows down to his very core how this would affect her.

 _Ah, fuck._ "Hey," he lifts a hand toward her shoulder, "are you okay—"

"I'm fine." Veronica brushes past him to pick up her drink, drain it, and shove the cup into the bags he threw by the door. The message couldn't be any clearer if they were both telepathic. _Don't go there._ "Anyway, Petturi had the dollar."

To push or not to push, that is the question. His answer lies in her hard expression, as well as the small glance she throws to the door, only a couple feet behind her.

 _Keep her here, talking about the case, fuckhead._ "What about the poker games? Petturi could have won the dollar."

Veronica shakes her head; her drawn-up shoulders fall slightly as she takes a step closer to him. "Pesos only. All the other guys confirmed it."

Mention of his shipmates tightens his gut. "What's going on with the crew?" He especially wants to ask about Diego and the ring, but won't bring it up unless she does. The old adage 'no news is good news' holds true here.

"We questioned them over the weekend," she answers, "and let everyone go this morning."

Logan shakes his head. "What did you tell them about me?" He can count on at least Diego wanting some answers about 'Monk'.

"Just that you were being held for questioning, mostly due to passport issues." She gives him a wry smile. "Given the things we turned up during background checks on the shipping company and several of the crew, they were willing to stop asking questions if we were."

_Fair enough._

"Okay. Petturi having the dollar pegs him as a thief, but nothing else."

Veronica sighs and leans back to rest her hands on the bed. When she tips her head to the light, twin smudges of exhaustion under her eyes deepen. "Except because of you, we dug into him right away. That other email address, with the videos? We used it to find hidden bank accounts, communication with cartel members, etc. We got most of it downloaded before someone scrubbed it." The corners of her mouth turn down. Her eyes fall to follow the thumbnail she uses the draw circles on his blanket. "That's actually why Vincente talked."

"Not following you."

She still doesn't meet his eye. "There was another video of Vincente's mother and sister on Petturi's secret email, of them being executed."

There isn't a smidge of sympathy to spare for Vincente, who was willing to help kill several agents. Not so for the innocents – the ones who always seemed to pay the price for the sweaty-toothed madmen. No, for them he can spare a moment of grief.

"That's the good news," Veronica says, interrupting his reverie. "Petturi is getting his ass nailed to the wall and you're a goddamn hero."

He has to sneer at the idea he's any kind of hero, much less to the FBI. Besides, there's the ominous 'that's the good news' that sends a twinge to his gut. "And the bad news?"

Her mouth turns down and her voice drops just above a whisper. "You still shot a federal agent. They haven't told me how that's going over."

Of course that's not going to go away just because Petturi didn't die. Logan's not sure he trusts his knees to bend enough so he can sit; the wall is his best option, a solid support at his back. "Any chance I'm getting that lawyer?"

"She's getting filled in now. You'll meet her soon."

The walls move in. _You still shot a federal agent_. This room grows smaller, the ceiling closer to his head. _You still shot a federal agent._ His breath is harder to catch, creating a pressure on his chest, and he tips his head back to try to gulp more air. _You still shot a federal agent._

He'd known this, but hearing it out loud like that, with the warning undertones, breaks down every wall he'd built around this in his head. _Prison. Cell. Live like this the rest of my life. A short life, if Gory finds out._

"Logan." She gets up and walks over to him. The pressure of her hand on his chest is centering, but not enough to let him breathe easy. "Do you need a room with windows?"

"God, yes," he gasps out. The need to see something other than four solid walls consumes him.

"Okay, give me a second."

She pounds on the door and is let out. It's forever before she calls him over. Per instructions he thrusts his wrists through the opening and accepts the cuffs put on them. When the door is opened and he steps into the hallway, he's able to take a full breath for the first time in what seems like hours.

They don't go far, up a flight and down a hallway; an armed guy in a suit follows them. The room she leads him into is small, with only a small table and a few chairs, but a bank of windows take up one wall.

Given the high-centered position of the sun it must be midday. Veronica takes a seat, allowing Logan a restorative minute to press his forehead against the glass. The view of Los Angeles National Cemetery is one he remembers, though he's only seen it from street level before. It's a jarring realization that he's here. Not just in the US, but in L.A.

The irony against her earlier words lets him smile, albeit bitterly. He keeps his back to Veronica and points at the soldiers' graves. "Those are heroes. They get three volleys and a burial with honor." He turns and puts his back against the window, lamenting whoever created glass that lets in light, but blocks heat.

The worst of his panic gone, now there's room for anger. "So, what do I get? Ten years, twenty? That's if Gory doesn't find me first. Come on, lay it on me. What am I looking at?"

Veronica grimaces at him, an effort to hide the worry before it can settle into her face. "A pity party, I guess. I'll bring the limp balloons."

_Damn woman, gives me no truck._

The thought brings a reluctant smile out of him. She's right; he's being maudlin and whiney. The least he can do is face this with a smidge of dignity. There'll be plenty of time to wallow later. In prison.

A faint ping sounds, and she pulls a phone from her pocket to check the message. "That's your lawyer. She's on her way up."

"She," Logan repeats, taking in the pronoun. "Cliff too busy to make the drive from Neptune?"

Veronica gives him a wry smile. "I didn't ask, but I'm sure we can get him if you want. I think you're better off with this one, though. Name's Joan Haverton. There's some overlap in cases between San Diego and L.A. so she's deposed me twice, and I've seen her in court. She's used to going up against feds."

"Wait," Logan cocks his head. A surge of hope runs through him. Maybe his messages have been getting through. "Eva hired her?"

"No—"

 _Idiot. Veronica just said she knew the woman._ "You? You hired her? Can you do that?"

Veronica shakes her head. "Nobody hired her - she's a public defender. You asked for a lawyer, remember?" When Logan raises his eyebrows at her, she admits, "But I might have called in a favor to get her assigned to your case. She's one of the good ones."

Though a Veronica endorsement is colossal, this is still his life to be negotiated. "Tell me straight, should I pull in a shark?"

"I say at least talk to her. You can decide from there." She squeezes his hand and stands up to walk toward the door. "Do you want me to stay or go while you meet with her?"

"Stay, please," Logan answers. Begs? Doesn't matter. "Any possibility I can use a phone before she comes? I left Eva a message when I first got here and she has to be going out of her head."

 _How long ago was that? A day? Two?_ Long enough that she'd be yelling at him in the empty house. She got cranky when she worried.

A knock sounds at the door. Veronica answers it with a distracted shake of her head to indicate no. "That's something to ask the attorney."

Joan Haverton is a middle-aged woman with a body like a stack of inner tubes and the wrinkled skin of a heavy smoker. Her bleached Florence Henderson haircut and outdated dress does nothing to flatter her; however, Logan prefers it to the shiny suit smarminess of the other lawyers he's used.

Accompanying her is a blue-suited, fifty-something man who introduces himself as Special Agent Johnson. The _Die Hard_ callback inserts a much needed bit of levity into Logan's mood. One that's brief when he sees Veronica's change in demeanor at the other agent's presence.

Gone is the relaxed informality he'd grown used to. Her back straightens, shoulders square, and every bit of emotion is blanched from her face. It's a stoicism Logan remembers from her father. When Keith Mars played daddy he was calm, funny and had a wide, welcoming grin. Put him in the official capacity of detective or sheriff and the man became infused with an endoskeleton of steel rods.

As a kid that fit in with Logan's view of the world; his parents were completely different people at work than they were at home. Which meant every adult was a liar. Now, watching Veronica, he can appreciate how his view has changed. Being a cop isn't a role she plays, it's an innate part of who she is now.

"Logan," Special Agent Johnson begins, "I'm the agent handling your case. Before we begin, do you accept the representation of Ms. Haverton, or would you like to request another lawyer?"

His eyes seek confirmation of this answer in Veronica's. She gives him nothing but a placid expression, bored impartiality in his answer. He nods to Johnson. "Ms. Haverton will be fine."

"Ok, we have a lot to go over. I take it Special Agent Mars-Zare has caught you up to speed?" Johnson speaks Veronica's last names so fast they blend together and create something vaguely French-sounding, _Marzaire._

"Yes, as we discussed." Veronica is the first to a seat at the table, making it clear she's there to stay. "Logan's ready to hear about any charges being brought against him."

Johnson frowns at her when she sits but doesn't argue. He waits for the lawyer to seat herself before he does the same. Ms. Haverton is all about formality, addressing them as Mr. Echolls and Special Agent Mars-Zare, the implication that they should extend her the same courtesy. After shaking Logan's hand she sits at the little table, opens her briefcase to remove a few files, and waves him to the chair opposite her.

Logan doesn't sit. This is going to be bad and he may need that chair soon enough. For now he wants to do this on his feet. Veronica's earlier admonishment gave him a surge of strength that might not last.

Ms. Haverton sighs heavily when he remains standing, shrugs, and spreads out a few papers. "Mr. Echolls, a case lands on my desk that says a guy shot an FBI agent, I'm gonna figure on thirty years, minimum."

_Thirty years._

He glances at Veronica, at the pain that breaks through her eyes before she pulls it back. It's a reminder this entire thing encompasses more than just him. Yet, Veronica is here, alive, rather than blown up or buried beneath the rubble of an FBI building.

A sense of peace imbues him; his life may be over, but hers isn't.

_Totally worth it._

"But you're one lucky son of a bitch," Johnson contends. Ms. Haverton stares at him, the hint of a small smile beneath her heavily-lined mouth.

"Because…?" Logan's question hangs there, as if he should already know the answer, and it irritates him. The self-pitying emo boy inside him wants to throw back his head and cry, "When have I ever been lucky?"

"Because you've got three things going for you." Ms. Haverton lifts up her hand and uses her fingers to count them off as illustration, pinky first. "One, Petturi's taking a plea offer. When he saw the evidence against him he decided to grab the best deal he could. He agrees you shot him in self-defense. Two, you've got a lot of important, grateful people on your side—"

"Of which I'm one," Johnson interjects, a show of emotion evident only in the bob of his Adam's apple. "My daughter works here, in the morgue. Your actions probably saved her life. I wanted on this case so I could personally thank you."

Logan hadn't put any other faces on this besides Veronica's and Gai's. Veronica could have died on the boat. Veronica could have been blown up helping transport the bodies. Gai could have been orphaned. Everyone else affected were faceless redshirts in the background.

The three people in the room with him are quiet and Logan realizes they're waiting for some kind of response from him. His reply is feeble, an awkward mumble of, "Um, yeah, sure. You're welcome."

Veronica allows him an eyeroll at his lameness when he glances at her, before her masks falls back into place. Logan can feel a grin threaten to break through but tamps it down. He's not out of trouble yet.

Ms. Haverton nods, "And three…," she glances at Johnson, carrying on some silent conversation.

Her long pause makes Logan step forward and grip the edge of the chair in front of him. His hands need something to do.

"Three, your name carries some weight," Johnson takes over. "If a story about a rogue agent went public it would be bad enough. Add in the son of Aaron and Lynn Echolls playing savior to the feds? There's no end to the Hollywood shit storm that would follow."

_Made for TV movies, unauthorized biographies. They'd never leave me alone._

The thought makes Logan's stomach flip; all the grease and fat of his meal threaten to make a reappearance. He's not sure which is worse, the idea of being tabloid fodder again, or that prison is the equivalent of a serving platter for people like Gory.

"So. What am I looking at?"

Ms. Haverton lays a paper in front of him. "Confidentiality agreement. So far the FBI has kept your involvement out of the news, and they intend it to stay that way. They want your silence over the entire case, inclusive of all actions by Agent Trevor Petturi."

Logan's confused. There should be an 'if' part of that statement, some attempt to barter for his silence. Perhaps with promises of reduced sentencing or a private cell where he won't be subject to the attentions of three-hundred pound men who invented the phrase 'rip you a new one'.

Veronica's eyebrows lift a fraction, though her voice maintains a barely-interested tone "What does this mean in terms of charges and sentencing?"

"It means," Johnson answers, "on this, he walks. The story the press will get is what happened to those poor agents from Chicago – that's it. The only people that know what went down on that boat are criminals, feds…and," he turns to Logan. "You. _You_ have them worried."

_I walk. Walk. Like, out of here?_

Logan, incredulous, drops into the chair. Though Veronica is silent next to him, he can feel the vibration of her energy. When he's quiet she takes over, confirming the information his brain can't yet make sense of. "Even exchange? Logan is let go as long as he promises to keep quiet, all so there's no taint over Petturi. "

Ms. Haverton grins at the two of them. "Marty Kaan's got nothing on the feds. These guys will do anything to make sure they come out of shit smelling like a rose." She ignores the glare Johnson shoots at her.

"There is a catch." Johnson leans forward and folds his hands on the table. His voice comes out almost regretful. "Or catches. There's two."

It actually relaxes Logan to hear that there's more to this. If life taught him anything, it's that he'll get screwed, one way or another. That's okay – the inevitability is almost comforting.

"The first catch is that there's no statute of limitations in the charges we can bring against you. Break the agreement and you'll end up in a federal pen – for violation of contract as well as anything else we can make stick." Despite Johnson's earlier show of gratitude, he means the threat.

"What if I refuse to sign it?"

"Really?" Ms. Haverton runs a critical eye over him; sarcasm drips from her tongue. "Are you actually asking that?"

Logan shrugs at the two of them. "Might be. Depends on the second catch."

Ms. Haverton nods and pulls another file of papers out. "There are a list of charges, all relating to your purchase and use of a false identity. Both by the US government since you're a citizen, and Ireland, since that's where the name came from."

_Fuck me. Shoot an FBI agent, get a handshake. Buy a name, go to prison._

"Ok, what is that going to mean, in the form of a sentence?" Veronica asks.

"Negotiable. There was no intent to defraud anyone. They don't want to formally charge you, and they're hoping you don't force their hand."

"Which means what?" Logan asks.

Ms. Haverton answers, "You have to turn over all the information you have about how you acquired the identity, and can no longer live under a false name. There's a lot more details to go over but if you abide by their rules, you're free. You don't, you'll be formally arrested and charged."

Logan thought he was already under arrest but, when he thinks about it, no one read him his Miranda rights. He must look as confused as he feels because Ms. Haverton grins at him. "Like I said, you've made some people pretty happy."

Johnson interjects and has the grace to look ashamed. "Before you get too excited, there's a lot of conditions riding on this. We had to negotiate with Ireland, since that's where the identity came from. And Chile, since that's where you're living and working illegally. So one of the things you have to do is abide by a sort of informal probation, for a year."

_Probation. A year…that's it?_

Veronica picks up the file on the table and thumbs through it. "Informal probation?"

"Well," Ms. Haverton takes the file from Veronica and sets it down. Her smile is enigmatic. "Mr. Echolls, the U.S. can't force you to return to Chile. This is your country, even if you haven't lived here for years. But—"

"They'll feel a lot better if I'm not underfoot." When he was a kid his dad gave him a shiny yellow car, fat bank account and plenty of plastic to get him away from the house. Should be interesting to see what kind of offer a whole nation will make to dispose of him.

"Well, yes. The Chilean government has agreed to let you live in their country, legally, if that's what you want."

 _Live as a legal immigrant. That could be nice for a change. I can just imagine the traction the PCHers would get out of hearing I got deported back to the US._ The thought is amusing, but one to be filed away for later.

"How does that work with probation?"

Johnson sighs. "Mandatory check-ins with the FBI, and if you're not in the states, the local authorities. You go disappearing they'll put out a warrant for your arrest and bring formal charges against you."

"Will I be able to travel?" He made a promise in his letter to Veronica – anytime, anywhere. She might not want to bring Gai to Chile, if she'll even allow them to meet. Violation of his probation means a warrant, which could bring Gory to his doorstep, and hers.

Ms. Haverton looks to Johnson for an answer, a reminder that while Logan's her client, she doesn't exactly work for him. Johnson nods. "We'll add it to the agreement. As long as you let your probation officer know where you're going and for how long, I don't think it will be a problem."

_Since when does probation work that way? Even informal probation?_

There's a subtext here that doesn't bypass him. This probation is a formality, a face saver. If he does disappear, there may be a warrant. There may not. Chile is a nice, distant rug to sweep him under.

"It says here he has to formally change his name to Malachy Lynch," Veronica says, pointing to a spot on the paper in front of her.

"No." Ms. Haverton says. "He can't keep both names, so he has to choose one. If he's going to live as Malachy, or anyone else, he has to legally change his name."

_Hmmm. I'm zero for three –turns out the one who kills Logan Echolls is actually Logan Echolls, in the FBI building, with a pen._

It's a silly thing to be attached to, a name. Especially one he threw away years ago. Still, it nails shut a door he always wondered if he'd walk through again.

"Can they seal the record of the name change?" Logan asks. "I don't want anyone to be able to connect Logan Echolls and Malachy Lynch." Surely even Gory's computer people won't be able to hack a federal database for something they didn't even know was happening.

"Sure." Ms. Haveron nods and spreads out the papers. "Let's go over all the details, and then we can discuss any changes before you sign."

Veronica's phone pings again and she pulls it out. "I need to take this," she throws over her shoulder as she heads toward the door. Two knocks and it opens, her "Hi, thank-," into the phone cut off mid-word.

Logan watches after her, wondering if it's Gai on the phone. What has she told him, what will she tell him about her jaunt to South America? As an agent she's bound by confidentially even more than he is, once he signs these papers. It's probably a moot distinction. There's only so much you'd tell a twelve-year-old.

"Mr. Echolls?"

"Yeah." Logan turns his attention to the people in front of him.

Johnson stands up and puts his hand out to be shaken. The man's grip is warm, and strong, especially when he covers their clasped hands with his other one and nods. "I'll leave you and Ms. Haverton to go over the fine details. We'll talk later. Thank—" His voice is slightly thick with his next words. "Thank you, again."

Logan watches the man leave, still trying to adjust to this reality where any member of law enforcement doesn't view him as a public enemy. Ms. Haverton has to say his name three times to pull his attention back to the paperwork in front of her.

The confidentiality agreement isn't complicated. Ms. Haverton suggests a couple of changes and, when he agrees, makes notes in the margins. She'll take it to the FBI attorney for revisions, then bring it back for his signature.

The agreement regarding his identity theft is more complicated. They're only about ten minutes into it when Veronica comes rushing back in, her face flushed and a little breathless. She stands officiously next to the door, hands tucked into her back pockets. "Will you excuse us? I need to talk to Mr. Echolls for a minute."

His stomach, finally settled, gives a lurch. _Shit. What now? Knew it was too easy._

Ms. Haverton looks between them and nods, saying something about finding some coffee and leaves the room.

"Logan," she whispers; her spine visibly wilts once the door is closed. She plops down in the chair and grabs both his hands resting on the table. "It's about Gory."

Her palms are strangely warm, and clammy. She looks like she ran from wherever she was, a slight glisten to her skin like right after she found out about the bombs.

_The news. The press found out and my name is all over the place. Puts a target on our heads and blows my deal. Fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuck._

"Gory. What about Gory," he asks.

"Boston. Six years. Domonick. Jesus, six years!" She shakes her head and exhales a wobbly breath.

"Make sense, Veronica. Full sentences."

"Sorry," she brushes a hand under her eye to take away the tear that's formed there. "I haven't had time to look into Gory myself, but I put in a call to Organized Crime in Boston. Just heard back. Domonick spent years working with the feds. Handed them the Sorokins wrapped up like it was Christmas. Some ended up in prison, the rest killed over turf wars. Both happened to Gory – shivved in prison. Logan," she whispers, choked, "he's been dead for six years."

He should feel joy. Relief. Elation, even. But first is disbelief, and then, once that's gone, grief. _Six. fucking. years._ Given the time back it wouldn't reverse everything, and he's not sure he'd want it to; six years ago Veronica was already married to Sam, and Logan with Eva.

But Gai had been a small child, less than seven years old.

"You're," Logan pushes down the lump that's lodged itself in his throat. "You're sure?"

Veronica nods and he can see the knowledge of what this has cost him –them - etched in her face. "The agent I talked to worked the case. Domonick began to feed them intel about the time you left. When it all came down it was big news in the Boston area." She lets him go and hands him her phone. A _Boston Globe_ news article is open, all about convictions in trials that took place seven years ago. Gory received multiple consecutive sentences that really boiled down to one; life without parole.

Veronica moves behind his chair and reaches over his shoulder to flip the phone to a different window. Her chin rests on his shoulder while she whisper-reads along with him. An obituary notice for Gorya Sorokin.

She hops up on the table near him. A kind of mania rolls off of her, a mere beat away from hysteria. "Agent Willoughby said Gory kept a hit list. Some code names, some not. Willoughby thinks you were 'The Golden Child'." Her smile is tight, and bitter. "There were a lot of names crossed off the list."

A joke would be good here. Some quip or flip. Somehow he can't make it happen; the grain of the table and the side seam of her jeans has commandeered every bit of his concentration.

"Logan," she leans over until her face is between his and the table, a futile attempt to get him to look at her. "You leaving saved your life. Maybe mine and Gai's, too. Even Dick's. From what I hear, Gory cut a wide path."

There's something heavy on his chest. It's invisible, but the pressure is horrendous.

"Hey," Veronica whispers. Her fingertips trace his brow and run down to cup his chin. She pulls his head up until he's facing her. Her wink is disingenuous; there's too much concern behind it. "Damn you for making me say this, but it's good that you left."

All the times he called himself paranoid, mentally flagellated himself for buying the story of some random dude that showed up at his door. Never had he allowed himself to fully believe Domonick told the truth.

The weight on his chest increases, and the sensation is now familiar, the ying to the yang of the most intense of pleasures. His only option is to ride it out - wait for the supernova comprised of the doubt, anger and fear he's carried for the last thirteen years to explode and dissipate. When it does, it takes every gram of air in his lungs with it and leaves him spent and breathless.

Veronica's cocks her head; reassurance and concern mix to soften her face. "Logan, you don't have to hide anymore."

This is real. True. It must be because Veronica is here, and she's smiling. Admittedly her smile doesn't reach her eyes, but it's there. "Seriously. Just like that, it's over," he rasps, looking to her for one last confirmation.

"No. I mean, yeah." Her voice drops so low he can barely hear her. "It's been over for a long time."

There's something in the way she speaks that has him study her. Her eyes turn away and he swears it's guilt that darts over her features before she schools them into something more pleasant. Whatever her thoughts are in that moment, it's clear they belong to her.

 _For now,_ he promises himself. It's in that moment he knows he's truly free, since he won't have to tiptoe around her life to make sure she's okay.

_I can be Logan Echolls again._

_Sure. You can also hold bum fights and drink a vat of booze a day. Doesn't mean you have to._

No, he didn't. He could keep the name of Malachy, and the simple anonymity that goes with it. Echolls conjured up too many things: The seduction of underage girls. Philandering. Suicide. Murder. Money. One name and everything people think they know about him is laid bare.

To remain Malachy is to keep his haven for these past years. Letting him go to inhabit Logan again means he'll have to deal with the reckoning that comes with it.

_Who wants that bullshit again?_

_Not you. Besides, it will be a nice study in contrasts for Gai. One father who stood up to enemies, foreign and domestic, while the other won't even stand up to himself._

_…ah, fuck._

"Veronica?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you find Ms. Haverton and tell her to change the paperwork? I'm taking back my real name."

Her smile this time is genuine, if tempered and slow won. "Sure."

"And can I keep your phone for a minute?" It's still cradled in his hand, a few buttons the only thing between him and Eva.

Veronica takes it from his fingers with reluctance. "Any calls have to be sanctioned and official, until they release you. I'll work on it, though."

* * *

Logan doesn't see Veronica again that day but Ms. Haverton comes back and lays everything out for him. To revert back to Logan Echolls means all his assets have to be transferred into that name. Contracts signed. Malachy Lynch returned to the grave he came from.

While she draws up the papers and they work on bringing him an accountant, another agent comes in and supervises him using a phone; the archaic kind with a handset that plugs into the wall. Eva's voicemail, again. The rote, recorded message and the agent at his elbow stops him from saying anything except he's still with the FBI, and he's okay. That he'll try her again soon.

It's the accountant that tells him it's Monday. Which means he's been with the FBI almost three days, since the boat pulled into port Saturday morning. There's a lot to plow through to close off Malachy and they spend the rest of the day working on it. Through computers and phones they get all his accounts rolled into one and the name on his Chile property transferred over. It's amazing how easy it all is when a fed is at your elbow, turning the cogs.

There are a few numbered, offshore accounts Logan set up as a safeguard, should he have to run. Though he could probably hide the accounts, he offers them up both as insurance against his future freedom, in case they're found, and a leap of faith that he'll never need them.

Logan had kept track of his money over the years yet having it lumped in one place is a shock. It's been a long time since he'd added it all up. Thanks to frugal living, some good investments, and compound interest the number is glutinous, staggering. Some of it has places to go but it's not a thing to be handled now, under the nose of Veronica's bosses. Probably she hasn't told them Logan is her son's dad; he can see Cliff later about those trust funds.

_Maybe I'll rethink the Bugatti idea. Eva'd take one look and call me an asshole._

What he is able to do is transfer money to pay off Diego's house. Despite being allowed to sail away from this mess Diego's problems aren't over. To actually send him cash would be problematic, suspicious. Logan figures removing the man's mortgage is the simplest way to help him out. Doing it now, through the FBI accountant, makes it so everything is above-board. Diego will hate it but that's a fight they can have later, when he gets back to Chile.

By his reckoning he slept about fifteen hours the night before but he's still yawning when they at last tie up all the financials. Another try to Eva's phone lands him in her voice mail again; this time he doesn't leave a message. There's too much to say. Johnson isn't around, though another agent promises release in the morning once a few final transactions go through. Logan can call her then; his last remaining energy is spent on a shower and inhaling some dinner. He doesn't even care when they lock him back up in the same room, though this time they comply with his request for an extra blanket.

* * *

Delivery of breakfast wakes him up. With the oatmeal and fruit cup comes a bag of clothes. His socks, boxers, and stained, holy cargos, laundered and folded. The shirt isn't his though. It's black and missing the hole and bloodstains from when he got stabbed. Shaking out the t-shirt he sees it's from In-N-Out, and laughs.

_Veronica._

He sobers when he tallies the ways, big and little, she's taken care of him since finding out his identity. She hid the theft of the ring, putting her career at risk. Then she forgave him for leaving all those years ago and talked to him openly about their son. Said she trusted him and protected his friend. Confided in him. She used a favor to make sure he got a good attorney, fed him, held him, and now clothed him.

_Why are you surprised? Hasn't she always taken care of you?_

She had. More than his parents or his best friend. Even when she didn't want to, or it cost her, and never asked for anything back. Caretaking is such an intrinsic part of who she is, who she's always been, he wonders if it's she's even aware of the extent to which she does it.

Or who's taking care of her, now that her husband is gone.

Dressed and fed, he's stuck with waiting. And waiting. They haven't returned his watch yet so he has no way of knowing what time it is. Looking to kill minutes, he rolls his socks into a ball and lays back on his bunk. Not quite a baseball and glove like The Cooler King, but counting the number of times he throws the ball up and catches it one-handed helps him keep his sanity.

764 times. That's how long it takes for the lock to release on his door and Veronica to walk in. Her smile is tight at his greeting and she stays by the wall, playing with her wedding ring. Something he suspects she does when she's nervous. "Big day, huh?"

"I guess. Are you here to let me out?"

"No. Someone else gets to take on that liability."

His crossness isn't helped by her joking. "Any idea what's taking so long?"

"Wheels of government." She shrugs and repositions herself against the wall, one leg bent.

Logan studies her. Her eyes are lined with fatigue, her hair pulled back in a sloppy ponytail, and she's wearing a wrinkled t-shirt and jeans he recognizes from their time on the ship. "Have you been home yet, or gotten any sleep since Thursday?"

"Um," she scrunches up her face in confusion, "there's a couch I'm using. With traffic between San Diego and L.A. it's easier just to stay here until I'm done with this case. Why?"

"Because you look like hell." As soon as the words leave his mouth he wants to bite them back. Not that they aren't true, but because it isn't what he means. At all.

"Okay," she scowls at him. "I think Ms. Manners would put that in the column of things _not_ to say to your ex."

Logan sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "Look, as post-apocalyptic cover girls go, you'd win centerfold of the year, hands down. But they call it beauty sleep for a reason."

Her lips turn up at the corners, "Pretty sure there was a compliment in there."

"Pretty sure you're right," he chuckles. "When do you get to go home?"

"Today, after I finish a few things."

The silence stretches while they stay in their respective corners, Logan with his elbows resting on his knees and Veronica touching each of the fingers on her right hand to her thumb. She's going home and there's no more obstacles keeping him away. The question of his meeting Gai sits hugely in front of him, but he needs to find the right words.

"So, I saw Eva," Veronica says, breaking the silence. "Like you said, she's beautiful."

_Whatthefuck?_

He swings his feet down to the floor, sits up and looks at Veronica. Every blood cell in his body is poised, waiting for a starter's pistol. "What do you mean, you saw Eva?"

"She's here." Veronica's studies him. "I thought Johnson told you?"

Logan shakes his head. He's left Eva messages but hasn't allowed himself to imagine she would come all this way. A thrum fills his veins, those pent up cells not only returning to their course, but increasing in speed. _Eva's here_. They need to let him out, and soon.

"Apparently she showed up late yesterday. Security kicked her out when they closed and she was right back this morning." Veronica's mouth lifts in a half-grin of admiration. "Terrorizing the lobby staff."

He huffs out a laugh. Eva's badgering the FBI and Veronica's laughing about it. Life might be easier if he loved less complicated women, but not as interesting. "Why?"

Veronica wings an eyebrow at him. "Nobody is supposed to admit you're here, remember?"

"Wait," Logan stands up, the amusement vanishing when that gets through. He points to the door. "You mean she's sitting out there, with no idea what's going on?" _oh hell no._ He's gone along with staying locked up when he's not even under formal arrest. Done everything they asked with a minimum of bitching. "Get whoever you have to. I'm leaving. Now."

"Relax," she yawns, not impressed with his attempt to bark orders. "Problem is, Eva's not immediate family. So I offered to call your sister-"

"You're fucking kidding me." May as well put Trina in an ugly striped sweater and finger-knives, as is befitting a nightmare come to life.

Veronica meets Logan's glare with her _as if_ face and ignores his interruption. "They didn't think that was a good idea. Instead, Agent Johnson told Eva you'd be out a little later today, and she relaxed." Her eyes dance in glee. "Eventually."

Eva worried and Eva angry are almost indistinguishable from each other, unless you know her well. Either requires a delicate balance of mollifying and teasing and, without those skills, Logan's sure Agent Johnson got the browbeating of his life. No wonder Veronica's amused.

As the humor passes and fades between them Logan tallies one more thing Veronica has done to take care of him. Offering to call his publicity-hound sister was a genius move – they'd do anything to avoid that.

With the repeated promise he'll be out later today, if only so Johnson doesn't have to face Eva again, he relaxes. "Mind passing on a message for me?"

"To Eva?" Veronica asks, surprised. When he nods she lifts a shoulder in acquiescence. "Sure, I just figured you'd rather be there when she met me."

His head cocked, Logan looks down at her. "You said you already met," he reminds her, speaking each word slowly.

"No, I saw her," she clarifies. Her lips purse into an embarrassed moue, and the laces of her shoe seize her attention. "I, um, kinda peeked."

When Logan chuckles Veronica rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest, defensive. "What, like you wouldn't have been curious?" She drops her eyes and looks up him through the lashes. "So, what do you want me to tell her?"

He thinks about that, for a whole half-second. Veronica's right; no way in hell does he want these particular two women meeting unless he's there. "Nothing, nevermind." Eva came all this way, she'll wait for him a little longer.

_Gai. Let's talk about Gai._

The foot against the wall drops, and Veronica steps closer to him, still looking at her hands. She's back to playing with the ring. "Logan, what are your plans, when you leave here?"

"You tell me."

She lifts her chin and squares her shoulders, a sign of gathering strength. "I was thinking, if you're in town through Saturday, you could come to dinner."

Veronica's not going to make him beg for this. Some small part of him has been afraid she would. That after everything they've been through, she still questions the wisdom of allowing him into Gai's life.

"I'll come tonight."

"No." She tightens her arms around her torso in that unconscious movement of self-protection. "I need more time."

_Time for what? To change your mind?_

_Or to see our -_ HER _kid after two weeks, and figure out what to tell him. Don't be a butthead._

"Okay," he agrees, though he wants to do the opposite. The need to meet his son has settled into every cell of his body, forming a craving stronger than any he's ever had for food, water, or rest. "Saturday."

"It's just dinner. After that…" she shakes her head.

"After that?"

"We'll see. Gai's old enough to get a say in all this."

The loss of all the years Gory has been dead sits there, mocking him with what could have been. Logan remembers himself at six, how he still worshipped his dad though he was also afraid of him. By twelve his feelings were a hell of a lot more ambivalent and complicated.

However, Aaron was the only dad he knew - Gai had Sam for comparison.

Logan nods wordlessly and takes the folded paper she hands him. Even if he's going to play a losing game, he still has to sit at the table.

"My address and phone number. Come about five. And Logan?"

His eyes move from the folded, lined square in his hand to meet hers. "Thank you. For everything."

There's so much going on behind that look, more than maybe he even knows. It doesn't matter. Once again they've gone through hell just to end up on the other side of it, both still standing. He tucks the paper in his pocket and again he ignores the flash of pain in his shoulder to give her a last embrace, and a small, virtuous kiss on her lips.

"I'll see you soon," she whispers as she squeezes his hand at her waist and walks toward the door.

* * *

This round he doesn't count how many times he catches the socks. It's an exercise to pass the day and keep his hand busy while he thinks. Lunch serves as the same. His thoughts are divided between Eva and that dinner on Saturday.

_How long is that flight from Chile? Fourteen hours? Bring something Saturday. A bottle of wine, for Veronica. Something for Gai. I hear going over the Andes is a bitch; tons of turbulence. Twelve years old. Video games! What game? What system? Where was Eva last night? Did she sleep, or stay up worrying? Music…except nobody buys CDs anymore. Don't even know what kind of music. Clothes are lame, plus no idea size, style. Comic books?_

Logan's thrilled to hear the lock click over; he needs to get away from his own head. Every other thought reminds him of what a stranger he is to his son, and vice versa.

And then, after all that waiting, the end is simple. A final review with Special Agent Johnson in regards to the terms of his release. Sign a few forms. Accept the business card for his monthly check-ins, agree to call the man tomorrow. Sign more forms accepting the return of the personal items he'd been carrying with him at the time of his arrest: The wallet, less all Malachy Lynch identification and bank cards. His watch, comfortable and familiar when it settles into the band of white on his wrist.

The small knife he always keeps in his pocket isn't returned. No cash or phone; those he left in his berth on the ship.

But he's given a new passport, the photo a cropped version of his mug shot. He hasn't looked in a mirror since before Veronica cut his hair and the picture startles him. His hair looks about the same style he'd had freshman year of college, though it's sans any product so lays straight on his head. The crooked nose, thinner face, and smatter of beard are there, but he's more recognizable than he's been in years.

He runs his hands over his jaw. The whiskers are filling in fast, and that won't do. First priority is a beard trimmer. No way is he meeting Gai while sporting his mountain man look.

Lastly a few credit cards, all freshly minted from the bank where he set up accounts the day before. Passport and credit cards. He can walk into a bank, withdraw a mountain of cash, and disappear before anyone notices, or cares.

_Why do I think all those papers I just signed are getting buried at the bottom of a drawer right now?_

They've made it so easy for him to disappear or go right back to Chile. But fuck them. He has a date he intends to keep and, since Eva is here, no reason to rush home.

Most surreal though, is the walk Johnson takes him past two or three dozen agents and various staff. They've been waiting for him. Many approach to shake his hand, clap his shoulder and, in a few uncomfortable instances, hug him. The mood is quiet, subdued, and Logan has to remember despite how things ended on the boat, this whole adventure started with a number of dead agents.

Johnson pointedly calls him a cab (as if Logan needs one more sign someone wants him gone), leads him out the door, down the stairs and waves him into the main lobby. He can see a bank of windows, a group of doors. And a bunch of people; it's ridiculously crowded. The word "Chicago" floats around him as he looks for Eva, so he figures the crowd is family come to claim their dead.

The suited agents and visitors flow around him like debris in the water, bits of kelp to brush past as he searches. It's her unsure, "Malachy?" _Logan, my name is Logan,_ that stops his feet, and makes him turn to see her sitting in a chair.

She stands and walks toward him, brow furrowed as her eyes scan his shorter hair and beard. Her recognition is tentative and wary, knowing it's him but with enough questions to hold her back.

Eva. She's been in the sun recently, her skin colored to a warm rosewood. The dress she wears is red, loose and flowing, pulled in at the waist with a wide brown belt. Dark sandals lace halfway up her calves. The outfit matches the glass and leather necklace he bought from a street vendor the last time he docked in Valparaiso, incongruent with the beaded turquois bracelet she always wears. Her hair hangs down to her waist, the front pulled back in some kind of barrette.

She reminds him of the ananuca flowers from some of her paintings, bright and imperial. It only takes five loping steps to put him in front of her, and an additional one to pull her into his arms.

"No puedo creer que estás aquí," he whispers. _I can't believe you're here._

Eva laughs, places her mouth next to his ear and whispers, "Hombre tonto. ¿Y dónde iba a estar?" _Silly man, where else would I be?_

Her hands are warm and large when they cup his jaw to center him for a kiss. A sweet greeting that builds to something more. His blood rises to the surface of his skin and he has to force himself to bring things to a close.

_Not yet. Too much you don't know._

Logan holds her there, solid in his arms. Her hair smells of the building's stale, recycled air, but underneath are richer aromas of turpentine, salt water, and the cloves she adds to his favorite apple pie. Scents that bring in memories of another place, another life from the one he's stepped back into.

Her arms wrap around him in a hug of reassurance. "You are okay." She's not asking a question; it doesn't sound as if she's even speaking to him.

Logan pulls back to see her face again. He can't get enough of her face. The fine lines at the corners of her eyes are deeper than he remembers. He touches them – signs that she's been through her own trials the past week. "I'm better than okay."

"Sí?" She asks. "What does this mean?"

_That you're here, and finally, so am I - name and all. I'm in love with you and there's nothing I wouldn't give you._

A tinge of trepidation passes its shadow over them. _Including the truth. Gai. Gory. Kissing Veronica._

He'll wait to answer but can't resist planting a kiss over the small mole by her eye, getting a pleased smile in return. There's no suitcase by her chair in the lobby, just her purse. Everything he has to tell her presses in. "Eva, do you have a hotel room or something?"

She studies him, thoughtful, her lips pressed together. He can sense desire and restrained impatience behind her expression, and in her sigh when she laces her fingers with his and pulls him over to grab her purse. She kisses him again, this time short and forceful. "Come, I have hotel."

Logan stops her after they head out the door. "Wait. I…" he looks down, studying his worn work boots before he meets her puzzled gaze. It feels important to set this boundary before they're alone together. "I mean, so we can talk, not to... I have a lot to tell you."

A lot that he wishes could wait until they grow accustomed to being together again. Seven weeks apart is a long time and things can vacillate between passionate and awkward the first day or so that he's home. Most serious conversations don't take place until they've indulged the first and gotten through the second.

Eva cocks an eyebrow at him, her speech slow with an undertone of warning. "Huevon, you know how I hate los aviones."

He knows. Every time they visit her parents she spends the entire two hour flight clutching his hand. And that's a calm ride compared to the route she had to take to California. "Yeah, I—"

"For two days I sit here como santa huevona, ignored by estos rotos culeados."

"I'm sorry—"

She raises a hand to indicate she's not finished. "Last night, Diego, he call me. Only thing he know is you spend toda la noche con la rubia, y you are bleeding, some other man is –" she stops and, frustrated when she stumbles in her search for the right word, shoots a finger gun to illustrate. "Y tú eres el detenido."

"I wasn't arrested, only detained."

"Sí," she snaps. "That's what I say. Detenido."

"But," Logan stops himself, realizing her combination of Spanish and English has tripped him up, made him translate things too literally. "Look, Eva, all of that's true, but it's not the whole story. That's what I wanted to –"

""Estoy tan feliz de verte, completamente extática, pero todavia no tengo la mas puta idea de lo que'ta pasando! Y tu crees que I want to echarme un polvo with you in a hotel? En serio? You-" _I am so happy to see you, completely ecstatic, but I still don't have a fucking clue as to what's going on. And you think I want to go screw you in a hotel? Seriously? You-_

Logan attempts to stop her tirade with a kiss but ends up laughing against her mouth instead. Even more so when she growls, "Asopado," ( _soup for brains_ ) under her breath and nips at his lower lip. But she gives it up and hugs him hard, burying her face in his neck.

The cab pulls up to the curb and he nods at the driver. Logan lowers his voice to a murmur. "Okay, okay, let's go. I'll tell you everything." The ends of her hair tickle the hand he has at her waist, and he gives the strands a gentle yank. "Including how glad I am that you're here."

He is. He'd been so afraid all of this would happen over the phone, making it too easy for her to hang up when she got upset. So much of their relationship has happened over a distance - enough to know which conversations need to happen close up.

Though Eva lifts her head and harrumphs at him, Logan can see signs of a smile lurking there. She sighs heavily, shakes her head and tows him toward the cab. While she slides across the seat Logan waits and breathes in the gritty, tainted air of L.A. It's something he's never forgotten, the tinge of industry and desperation that forever hovers in this city.

A movement down the street turns his head and he sees Veronica jump out of the passenger side of a large, white car that's double parked a block or so away. She scuttles around the back and says something to the gray-suited guy leaving the driver's seat.

As she's about to get in the car Veronica looks up and spots him. She stops, her mouth open in surprise, and he gets it. He'd spent years scanning the faces in every crowd, subconsciously looking for Veronica even when he didn't intend to. To see her now, even when it shouldn't be a surprise, sends a jolt through him.

Also present is a small bit of gratitude that she didn't spot him and Eva standing in the street with their arms wrapped around each other. It's going to take some time to feel comfortable blending past and present. The days with Veronica on the ship feel dreamlike, a part of neither.

They both relax into a small smile, her princess wave answered with his two fingered salute before she climbs in her car and closes the door.

"Malachy? You are coming with me, yes?" Logan steps back to look in the cab. Eva is leaning across the seat watching at him questioningly.

He glances up to see the white car turn a corner, carrying Veronica with it. A temporary parting, a few days respite so they can both deal with hard conversations before he meets Gai. "Yeah," he smiles down at Eva, remorse battering the shell of his heart when he sees how happy she looks. It won't last. "I am."

**END PART ONE**

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you to everyone who has followed/favorite/reviewed this story. This hasn't been the easiest tale to tell, and I couldn't have done it without you cheering me on. There are a couple of people who get an overly wordy thank you, but I saved those for the end.

 **A/N:** Fun fact: (per Google translate) Petturi is Finnish for _traitor_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Nevertothethird. Wow. I owe a debt of gratitude I can never repay. Without you this story would likely never have made it past the rough draft, and if it had everyone would have ended up hating Logan. You were right, dear friend, he was being an asshole. Thank you for saving me from myself repeatedly, and dig deeply into these characters we love.
> 
> A/N: Ghostcat – you brought Eva into full color with your Spanish and Chileanisms. Thank you for your kindness as I navigate writing this complex character from such a fascinating country. When I'm not mired in fic, I now have my nose buried in a book about Chile, and am on the hunt for custard apples. Be prepared, my friend, as I'll be shooting lots of questions your way as I launch into Part Two.
> 
> A/N: Lilamadison11 – the book cover you made for Haunted is now my desktop background, and I've been showing it off to everyone in RL that knows I write. You took this silly thing I've been doing and made it something real, and tangible. I know I've told you this at least ten times, but I love, love, love it, and you for making it.
> 
> A/N: One of my favorite things is when you're reading a story, and stumble across a song that just…fits. Even more when it's my story, and it's you guys soundtracking it. That your suggestions perfectly matched my mood while writing this told me I did something right:
> 
> It's nevertothethird's fault that this fic ended up so angsty, (yes, blame her) because it's also her fault that I listened exclusively to A Fine Frenzy while writing this. You were right, dear friend, "Ashes and Wine" and "Almost Lover" suit Veronica and Logan perfectly, as well "Poison and Wine" by The Civil Wars. But is AFine Frenzy done breaking my heart? No! You had to point out "Near to You" is the ballad of Veronica and Sam.
> 
> Sirisunrider you suggested "Song for Zula" by Phosphorescent. I'd never heard it before, but it's stayed with me since. The lyrics are gorgeous, the violin? sweeps me up, and I adore his melancholy, gravel voice.
> 
> Nightlocktime, "Te Busco" by Celia Cruz. Wow. This song. You sent it right when I was writing a bit about Logan looking for Veronica in the faces of strangers. KILLED ME. I'm including your translation for the curious ones who are non-Spanish speakers. I hope you don't mind.
> 
> I.  
> I stare longingly to the sky  
> looking for a piece of my life  
> my stars are not responding  
> to light up towards your smile
> 
> II.  
> Waves that dissipate on my eyes  
> to a legion of your memories  
> they steal from me shapes of your face  
> leaving sand in the silence
> 
> III.  
> I look for you, lost in dreams  
> the noise of the people  
> wrap me in a veil
> 
> IV.  
> I look for you flying in the sky  
> the wind has taken you away  
> like an old handkerchief
> 
> V.  
> And I do nothing but rummage known landscapes  
> in the most strangest of places  
> so I can't find you
> 
> VI.  
> I chase you in every footprint ~~~I'm looking for you~~~  
> I draw you in a shadow ~~~remembering~~~  
> footprints and shadows that get lost ~~~in the solitude~~~  
> luck is not a friend of mine
> 
> (then III, IV and V are repeated twice)
> 
> VII.  
> And I look for you…


	12. A Little More Conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my friends! Before we launch into Part Two I have to give a huge Thank You! for all your encouragement and support these past months. Your love for this crazy little AU has kept me going so many times when I would have floundered. And after keeping you waiting so long I know the last thing you want is to read my prattle so without further ado:

 

_Previously: Thirteen years ago Logan gave a well-deserved beat down to a Russian mobster in Veronica's honor. After a tough conversation wherein Veronica and Logan talked through a lot of their issues they reunited and spent the night together._

_The next day Logan was tipped off that same mobster had put a hit out on him. In an effort to keep Veronica from taking on a fight she couldn't win, he lied and told her he didn't want to start again. Logan then left and spent more than a year drinking and surfing his way through Europe, barely staying ahead of his death sentence. His overindulgence landed him in a hospital in Greece, after which he swore off alcohol, bought a false identity, and moved to Chile._

_For years Logan has lived in a small beach house outside of Antofogasta. He got a job on a cargo ship, grew a faceful of hair and hid behind the ruse he was mute, which worked beautifully as the persistent Gorya Sorokin never found him. The last nine years he has shared his life and secrets with the equally damaged Eva; when they met she was still hurting from the loss of her husband and sons in a car accident. What started as two lonely souls offering each other comfort long since grew to something more._

_Meanwhile Veronica finished college and became an FBI agent all while raising her and Logan's son, Gai. Five years after Logan left she met and then married Sam Zare, a San Diego police detective. Eight months ago Sam was killed on the job, once again leaving Veronica and Gai on their own._

_Gai is now twelve and with the loss of the man he called Dad, Veronica felt questions about his biological father would shortly follow. Following Logan's trail to a ten-year-old, unsolved murder in Paraguay, she was convinced Logan was dead. Until she got pulled to Chile to accompany a refrigerated cargo ship full of dead American agents back to Los Angeles._

_Many revealed secrets, much drama, and a solved mystery later Veronica and Logan have come to peace with each other. Logan is back in Los Angeles and Eva has come to meet him._

_We pick up where we left off, after Veronica and Logan each leave the Los Angeles FBI building to go their separate ways. They have four days until Logan is due for dinner in San Diego to meet his son for the first time…_

* * *

_Tuesday, May 12_

**Logan**

The address Eva gives the cab driver is two miles from the FBI building; a jog up Wilshire then a ways up South Sepulveda. The street names come easily to Logan. Though he lived in Neptune from the time he was twelve his family still spent a considerable amount of time in L.A. Given Rodeo Drive is close by he's especially familiar with this part of town.

Through some unspoken covenant Logan and Eva save their serious talk for until they're alone. There's too much to say and, Logan at least, wants to use the time to enjoy being with her again. To feel her grip his hand, stroke her fingers along his cheek, and watch the way her eyes run over him. When she throws her legs across his and nestles her head into his shoulder, Logan wraps his arms around her and rests his cheek against her head.

Again he notices the smells caught in her hair. Their kitchen is thousands of miles away but he can picture it as if he's standing in the doorway. Eva at the tile counter, its muted hues of red, blue and orange complementing the pile of swirled green fruit peels. Their large porcelain bowl half full of apple slices and Eva bent over a mortar and pestle, crushing cloves to best release their fragrance and taste. She secures her long hair back with chopsticks while cooking and at times it comes loose. The work of putting it back up transfers the scent of whatever she's handled into the strands.

"Tell me about home. Did you make a pie?"

She shakes her head and laughs. "¿Como lo haces?" _(How do you do that?)_ Instead of waiting for his answer she sighs and admits, "Yes, the apple you like. That way the house, it smells like when you are there."

"How was it?"

Eva shrugs. "One bite and I throw it away because it makes me sick for not having you."

Logan closes his eyes against the wave of guilt that overcomes him. Determination to not live on daddy's money feels stupid and pointless now; he should have quit his job a long time ago.

Their cab reaches a Best Western of the low to mid-range. The puddle they call a pool is a joke, though it looks clean. Eva leads him to a second floor room with a queen bed, an orange and maroon motif, and the ubiquitous, musty odor of cheap motels.

There's a small refrigerator and microwave as befits the budget-minded traveler. Opposite the bed is a squat, rectangular dresser with a television mounted on the wall behind it. In the corner sits a round table and two chairs, the upholstery of which matches the hideous bedspread. Eva's suitcase lays open in the middle of the bed and she points to the area in front of it.

"Sit. Diego says you are bleeding. Show me."

"I'm fine."

She arches an eyebrow and places her hand on her hip. Eva has an eloquent way of issuing or reinforcing an order without saying a word.

Logan sighs and sits down where she pointed. When he slips the t-shirt over his head he keeps it on his forearms, leaving his shoulders exposed. There's pain when he rotates his arm; still, the wound stings less than it did yesterday.

They sent someone to replace the bandage while he was meeting with the accountant so it's white and unstained. Eva frowns, moves to stand between his knees, and picks at the tape until she can peel the gauze away. "What happened?" There's no concern in her voice, merely a rank curiosity.

"Long story short? Veronica stabbed me." The corners of his mouth turn up, still finding this funny.

Eva cocks her head and studies the wound. When she slaps the bandage back in place she's not gentle and he hisses at the bite. "I thought you say Veronica has a gun." She steps back and crosses her arms, her jaw set firm.

Logan pulls his shirt back on, reaches out and grabs Eva's hands to pull her so her feet are placed between his again. He runs his fingers over her knuckles, unsure whether to pull her onto his lap or down next to him. Their usual setting is a beach house with run-down furniture and sand on the floor; there's no precedent for how to act in this strange room.

"Eva, I'm going to tell you everything. Believe it or not, Veronica stabbing me is about the least of it. But, can you go first?"

"Qué?" she frowns, confused.

"Share the stories you saved." Their tradition of exchanging small, unimportant tales always helps when he's first home; long ago they agreed it was the best way to get used to each other again.

"My stories are little and boring. No one is baleado o acuchillado," she says, arching her arm in an unintentional Anthony Perkins impersonation.

"All the better."

Impatience pervades Eva from the way she rolls her eyes to how she huffs out a breath and shakes her head. Logan can't blame her; if the situation were reversed he'd demand answers. But he needs this. _They_ need this.

She studies him then pulls a chair close to the bed and plops down into it. "Malachy, you tell me everything?"

_Not everything. You might as well have signed that confidentiality contract in blood._

_Fuck them. Eva and I aren't kicking off the rest of our life together with secrets._

"Everything."

"Me vuelves loca." She waves her hand at him. "But fine, yes. I will go first."

While she talks Logan pulls her feet into his lap and undoes the laces on her sandals, dropping them on the floor by the bed. She hates wearing shoes and the sandals made red indentations in her skin. Her rigid posture relaxes as he rubs her feet and calves; a miniscule stubble of hair tickles his palms.

Eva tells him about the morning she sat on the beach and had a thirty minute staring contest with a sea lion in the water. The old woman at the grocery store who quibbled over a one hundred and fifty peso discrepancy in her bill and berated the manager even after he discounted the price. A rain that came through on Friday and the young man she saw, walking his dog.

"Malachy," she laughs. "He is soaked, only in a garbage bag with a hole for his head. But the dog! She is wearing un sweater and a raincoat especial for dogs. While they walk the man tries to put the hood on the dog's head. But the dog," she whips her head back and forth.

Logan reaches out a hand to smooth back strands of hair that fell across Eva's face and chuckles. "I guess we know who the master in that relationship is."

Eva grabs his hand and presses it against her cheek. "You are right; this is helping. When I first see you today, you are stranger to me."

"That's weird." Irony lifts his mouth into a smile. "I feel more like me than I have in a long time."

"Good. Now you will tell me."

_Not yet, please not yet._

While on the ship Logan missed so many things about being with Eva. The small, loving touches they'd exchange. The way her eyes crinkled up when she looked up from the world of her art and found him watching her. At the top of the list is this - sharing a laugh or whiling away hours in conversation.

"Soon, first I want to hear about your painting. Anything new?"

At first Logan thinks her scowl is because of his request to delay again. When she goes to her bag and pulls out a sketch pad he knows it's something else.

The drawing she places in his hand is of the outdoor market where she sells her paintings; he recognizes the placement of the stands and their signage. Eva's brought the market to life so he can't figure out why she'd be unhappy about the result.

That's when he notices the people. The market picture is teeming with buyer and sellers; their faces are clear and many he knows. "You're drawing people?"

"Sí." Eva flips to another one of an old man standing on an outcropping of rock. "I sit with a picture in my head, only the place, but it is not done until the people come."

Logan turns the page again. This time it's a beach with a little boy and girl squatting over a starfish. The boy has dark hair in a bowl cut while the girl's hair is in two sleek braids over her shoulders. In the background are a crowded parking lot and the vague forms of other bodies but the focus of the picture is the children.

"Kids, too?" He looks up to see the uncertainty in her eyes. "Eva, they're good. Really good."

"Gracías, Malachy. But I am," she swallows, "scared. What if _they_ come?"

_They_. Her children. This time he pulls her down on the bed next to him and whispers, "Tell them hello for me."

When she rests her head on his shoulder and doesn't say anything, Logan whispers, "You know what's funny?"

"Hmmm?"

Again his voice is low. Something about the moment won't lend itself to a full voice. "I had a dream you were painting people. There was a photograph clipped to your easel and you'd only filled in the background so far. You were ready to paint the face."

She runs the tip of her nose lightly over his neck. "¿Porque 'divertido'? I am not laughing."

"Not funny ha-ha. Funny strange."

"Ah. This is another homonym, yes?"

Those born into an English-speaking culture never realize how fucked up the language is until they try to explain it to someone. "No, not a homonym. Just a word that officially means one thing but we've adopted it to mean another."

"So," she lifts her head and fixes her gaze on him. "A word that is spelled the same. It sounds the same. And has two different meanings." Her eyes drop from his, down to his mouth, and back up again. The two-octave drop in her already deep voice has no reason to be sexy. None at all. "What do we call this?"

It's a moment before Logan thinks to answer her question. Her fingertips have moved to lightly graze the inside of his arm and something about her lips draws his gaze down to them. Maybe because they appear closer than before. "A, um, homonym."

"Now, it is me teaching you English," Eva whispers as her mouth lightly grazes his.

Logan tumbles into the kiss as naturally as taking a breath. Until her fingers slide through his hair. Eva pulls back at the same moment he does and scrunches up her nose. "You hair, it is so short. Why does Agent Johnson make you cut it?"

_No way you're getting off this pot. Might as well get to it._

"He didn't. Veronica gave me the haircut while we were still on the ship."

All expression falls from Eva's face and she shifts backward, away from him. The intimacy carefully built this past hour shatters. "Now it is you who must tell stories."

Logan pulls up knee and shifts his body to face her. Her hands are clasped in her lap and he tugs on one until she reluctantly lets him draw it inside his own. His mind runs through it all: the bodies, the picture of Gai, the ring Diego stole, kissing Veronica, and the bombs. The moment Veronica relented and let him in again, and the peace that brought. His realization Eva has hung in many more years than he deserved, waiting for him to choose her. "I'm not sure where to start."

"Start at the beginning, or at the end. Start at what is most important. Just talk so that I am not going crazy."

"Fine, okay. I guess the thing you need to know first is that seeing Veronica again made me do a lot of thinking, and I owe you an apology. A lot of them."

Her fist tightens in his hand. "¿Porque?"

Logan splays open her hand runs his fingers over the lines on her palm. A few years ago he stumbled across books in palmistry at a yard sale. The three tomes had a lot of discrepancies between them so it was hard to know if they were doing it right, but he and Eva had a lot of fun trying. Most interesting is that they both have a deep and long destiny line that intersects their heart lines. All the books agreed this is rare.

"Do you remember when we talked about how fate brought us together when we most needed it?"

"Sí?"

"Well, when you think about it, isn't that how it always happens? Any two people meet because of a specific set of circumstances."

Eva shrugs, an attempt at indifference she can't quite pull off. "Or they will meet _again_ ," she says, misunderstanding Logan's point.

"I'm talking about us, you and me," Logan clarifies and silently orders himself to not botch this."Call it fate or whatever, it only gets you so far. We're together because we love each other."

"Malachy, yes, we have talked about this so much. I want to know what happens on the ship."

"No, we talked about how it was okay to love each other even though we still loved – "Logan stops when Eva's eyes fall from his. "I'm talking about choice. Eva, there was a day, a few years ago, when you came home from the cemetery. You'd been crying and didn't want me to touch you. Do you remember?"

She nods but her eyes stay fixated on her lap. Logan places his hand under her jaw and gently nudges her to lift it, to look at him. "That day you said goodbye to Eduardo, didn't you?"

"It was time." Her voice is flat, devoid of all emotion like her face. Her only tell of emotion is when she flits her eyes away from his.

"Why didn't you ever say anything?"

"It has no thing to do with you. I say goodbye for me."

In the galley on the ship Veronica said something similar – that whether things worked out between her and Sam she needed to let go of the past for herself. He's been so stupid for so long, leagues behind these women. Exasperation puts him on his feet.

"Eva, dammit, I should have done the same thing. I'm sorry I didn't, that I couldn't because -."

She stands up, meeting him at eye level. "Because you will still be in love with her, you do not need to explain. Malachy, you talk and you talk and you say nothing. I know nothing! What happens on the ship?"

The way she blows right past 'because you will still be in love with her' says so much. Since Eva picked him up they've kissed and he's said he loves her but she thinks it's all status quo. Which means he's done a lousy job of explaining.

With a deep breath he decides to go back to the FBI case that brought Veronica on board and led to his detainment. Everything that happened between him and Veronica traces back to that anyway– if she hadn't needed his help she likely wouldn't have spoken to him again.

"Remember I told you about the bodies we loaded up, and why Veronica was there?" Logan waits for Eva's nod before he continues. "She wasn't alone. A second agent was on the ship…"

It takes an hour to break it all down for Eva – something she lets him do with a few interruptions about that heuvón culiado ( _motherfucking son-of-a-bitch)_ Petturi and pasado a caca ( _shit-reeker)_ Vincente. Then another half hour to work through all her questions and explain the terms of the agreements he made with the feds.

By the end Eva's pulled a chair close to where he perches on the edge of the bed. Her hands clutch his new passport and her cheeks have lost their rosy color. "Malachy, you say before you cannot travel with your real name."

He hasn't said it out loud - even to himself - that the nightmare of these last thirteen years is over. "Gorya Sorokin's dead. He died six years ago in prison, and so did everyone else he was connected to. I'm free."

Eva's brows pull together and her eyes skim his. "The danger is done? You no need to hide?"

"Yep." Logan scoots closer, placing his knees on the outside of each of hers. "I can walk down any street in any city in the world and don't have to look over my shoulder."

She leans forward and lets her forehead fall against his. The passport is forgotten in her lap so she can place her hands on his cheeks. Their kiss is quick and interrupted by her laughter, full of the joy and relief coursing through his own body. "This is true? Tell it to me again."

"Darlin', I'm going to take you to Paris. To the Louvre." His imagination has taken them on many trips over the years. Places they could never go with a falsified passport. "To Rome, and Vatican City. We'll kiss so hard in the Sistine Chapel, the Pope'll send us both to hell as sinners."

"Show me."

He shouldn't. For all they've talked about, this conversation's just begun. But her saucy look and celebratory mood draws Logan to her mouth anyway.

"Okay," she laughs, after. Her voice is hoarse. "For that and a lot of vino, I will get on a plane. Tell me the words, one more time."

She's so eager, it's adorable. And adorable is a word that rarely describes Eva. Logan grins and shakes his head. "It's over. I don't have to run anymore. I can be me again."

Her eyes fall to his passport, clutched in her lap. "And who are you?" She holds it up and her smile is there, but the happiness has faded. "You are Logan. See, you are even looking like him."

_Shit. She's trying to make a joke. Not good._

"Um, yeah." Logan runs a hand over his cheeks and up the back of his head. Swallows the lump that's formed in his throat and orders his stomach to stop that nervous, fluttery thing. "What do you think?"

"I think," Eva again conveys the air of a general, "You need to tell me why this Veronica is cutting your hair."

"It was when we were on the ship. After she found out who I was but before everything happened with the bombs."

Her body tilts back, away from him, and her eyes narrow. "¿Porqué?"

"I don't know. She was pissed and wanted to see who she was yelling at, I guess."

"No." Eva throws Logan's passport so it hits his chest and falls in his lap. "Now I am not asking why she cut your hair. Why do she _find out_ who you are? Do you not tell her?"

"I was going to. But then things went sideways after you and I got off the phone."

Her hands fly up and Logan recognizes the signs of a major rant in progress. "What do you mean with sideways? And how do Veronica find out if you do not tell her? When we are the phone you say—"

"We kissed," he interrupts. "Veronica and me, after I got off the phone with you. That's what I meant about things going sideways."

_Way to go, Echolls. You don't think you could have eased into that one?_

"Look, I'm sorry. She didn't know it was me and we were both in a bad place that night. It only happened once."

"Only once." The flat tone of her voice is too controlled. While Logan is used to all of Eva's moods, this is one he doesn't recognize. That is until color floods her cheeks - rage has her in full bloom.

She stands up and leans over him. "Now say to me it means nothing. Say to me you love me. Say to me you are sorry! Be like every mujeriego who fucks his putas then comes home con mil disculpas."

"God, no. Is that what you think?" Logan stands up and draws her tight into his arms, not caring if she doesn't want it. Her fists are trapped between them and she uses them to push on his chest.

"No! She has you heart, this I have accepted. Is that not enough? I will not be your cornuda while – ." A sob catches at the back of her throat and cuts off whatever else she was going to say.

"Stop, shhh. Eva, it's not like that. You've got it so wrong."

She shakes her head and glares at him. "No! I will not be doing this again. Not with a man who is not even my husband. Let me go."

Logan releases his hold and watches gape-mouthed as she goes to pack her suitcase. He's known her for eleven years, held her as she cried over Eduardo. Listened to fucking soliloquies about what a good husband and father he was. Never once did he suspect the man had cheated on her.

"Eduardo? Why didn't you ever say—"

She whirls on him. "It is not your business. What does it matter? You are all the same." Her face is shut, all the rage and hurt from a moment before locked away. Her hand falls to the phone and she refers to a pad of paper on the table as she dials. "Yes, hello? I need a taxi —"

Logan lopes the two steps to reach the phone and hits the plunger to disconnect the call. "Give me a chance to explain."

"Explain?" When she narrows her eyes and slams down the handset it misses his fingers by a small margin. "I think, yes. I like to hear. Do she bite your lip how you like? Let you kiss her neck? Maybe she put her hand on your ass. Dame todos los detalles, por favor!"

"It wasn't like that. Before she found out who I was we were sitting next to each other and talking. We were both upset, she was crying, and it just happened."

"You were talking." Eva narrows her eyes. "You say she not know who you are. But she know you talk."

"I meant Veronica was talking, about how sad she was that I, I mean Logan, had died. The whole thing was mixed up and I felt like crap for lying to her. But she'd also been drinking, so I figured I'd better wait until the morning to tell her the truth. We were both a mess. That's when the kiss happened. Eva, I swear it stopped almost as soon as it started."

It's a conscious choice to hold back that he'd just discovered he was a father - throwing that in right now feels like an excuse for his misbehavior. He won't use Gai that way.

"After that the truth came out. Veronica and I talked, laid a lot of old feelings to rest. I'm seeing clearly for the first time in years and what I see," he chances taking her hands in his, emboldened when she lets him, "is you."

Eva's eyes cloud with confusion and Logan jumps in before she can sort it out. "You told me you'd never fall in love again, after Eduardo. But that changed, didn't it? I'm sorry I took me so long to catch up, but I'm there. I said a long overdue goodbye to what Veronica and I had and I'm ready to move forward. With you."

"No! You say this because your Veronica, she is married."

This time she pulls their hands apart and steps into the bathroom, away from him. She grabs at the toiletries left out and shoves them into a carry bag.

"No, it's because, like I said, it was time to make a choice. But there's more to it. I don't know how to explain this to you," Logan uses his body to block the doorway, determined not to let her leave until she understands. "Do you remember when we first started? I didn't realize what a big deal it was, that we weren't married but living together. Not until you got in that big fight with your parents."

Eva's back is to him and, from his angle to the mirror, he can see how hard she's working to fight back tears. But her hands have stilled. "You didn't talk to them for a month. It was killing you and almost broke us up. You hated disappointing them. Then they showed up at our door and you guys worked it out."

Logan chances taking a step closer to her, to see if she'll try to bolt. Breathes a little easier when she doesn't. "When I was a kid, Veronica was the only person who ever held me to a standard and let me know if I didn't live up to it. She was also the one to forgive me whenever I needed it most.

"Eva, you still love Eduardo. You said goodbye and you moved on, but you're always going to love him and that's okay. I'm always going to love Veronica. Aside from everything else she was my friend and defender at a time when I was short on both. Leaving her like I did was one of the shittiest thing's I've ever done and that's saying a lot. She and I talked and, Eva, she's forgiven me. I think – I had to have that from her again before I could really move on with my life."

Logan closes the distance between them and wraps his arms around her shoulders, crossing them above her chest. It's the first time he's seen his reflection since his haircut. For once he doesn't look like a complete mismatch for Eva's beauty and the thought heartens him.

"Eva. Look at us." Her head raises and their eyes meet in the glass. "That's the future I want, you and me. I'm free now, of a hell of a lot more than Gory, but it doesn't mean squat if you don't share it with me."

This time the tears fall. She lowers her head and her sobs wrack through her. Logan doesn't know what they mean but he holds her anyway. Keeps his arms around her when Eva turns within them and buries her head into his shoulder. It's been a long while since she's cried so hard, and this is the first time it was because of him.

His hands run up and down her back while he whispers a litany. "Shhh. I'm sorry, so fucking sorry. I love you. Sweetheart, I need you. Please stay."

Once Eva quiets, she lifts her head and laughs ruefully, embarrassed as she swipes at her cheeks. "I am so scared when you tell me Veronica is on the ship. I think I will lose you."

"Not if I have anything to say about it." While Logan lays a kiss by Eva's eye and pulls her in for a tight hug, an old shame moves into his underbelly. The kind borne when you commit a betrayal and are undeservedly forgiven.

Their kiss is soft, a promise of sorts, as are their whispers of "te quiero". Logan has no idea how long they stand there in that generic motel bathroom holding onto each other. Again he breathes in the cloves and other smells caught in her hair, reminding him of their little beach sanctuary he hasn't seen in two months.

His throat thickens. "What would you say to me sticking around?"

"Yes, is this not what we just settle?"

"What I mean is, I quit my job."

Eva lifts her head from where it's nestled in the crook of his neck and looks at him. "You will not be leaving again."

"Not unless you're with me."

Though her eyes are still red from crying, they light up as she launches herself at him and actually whoops. Surprised, Logan's foot catches on the transition piece between the bedroom and bathroom and they stumble backward. The carpet doesn't soften their fall much but they're both laughing too much to care. Eva sits up, a knee on each side of his hips, and smiles down at him. "Malachy, lo vamo' a pasar super bien." _(We're going to have a super good time.)_

Given their positions and her lighthearted mood several good time possibilities cross Logan's mind. Except he still hasn't told her about Gai; the weight of that secret is a heavy blow to the libido. "Eva—"

She grabs the wrist he's laid across his stomach and looks at his watch. "¡Chucha! The last flight will be in three hours." Her hands fall to his chest and she pushes herself into a standing position. "Tenemos que apurarno'." _(We have to hurry)_

Logan sits up and catches the laptop she pulls from her bag and tosses at him. "You book the plane, I will pack and call the taxi."

Her toiletry bag is already filled and waiting on the bathroom counter. She tosses it into the suitcase along with the sole dress that's hanging up.

"Um, Eva?"

"Yes?" She looks up from her suitcase.

_Breathe, dude. You can do this._

"Do you mind if we stay a few days?" Logan stands up, sets the laptop on the dresser and shoves his hands deep into his pockets

_Chickenshit. Just tell her_.

"Stay?" Her brow furrows. "You already see Veronica, and you always say she is the only decent person in your old life. That L.A. y California you hate."

"True, but I kinda made plans. For dinner at Veronica's house on Saturday."

Eva sinks down to the bed, her packing forgotten, and Logan doesn't give her time to come to her own conclusions. "Here's the thing. Remember on the phone I told you Veronica has a kid?"

"I remember. You say he is seven." She draws her brows together as she watches him cross to stand in front of her. More so when he sits beside her.

Logan's heart beats harder than when faced down Petturi with the gun. "I thought he was. Turns out he's twelve and, Eva ( _fuck! just say it)_ ,he's mine. His name's Gai - Gaius."

"You have a son?" she whispers.

There's so many emotions that flit across her face: anger, confusion, fear and he thinks, jealousy. "It would seem. Veronica didn't find out she was pregnant until I'd already gone."

Eva's turns her head to study the ugly painting on the wall in front of her. She's quiet so long Logan worries this is what will break them. Relationships can only handle so much and children are a source of much pain and envy for her. But joy, too. Something he'll have to remind her of. She loves visiting her nieces and nephews even if she watches them behind shadows of loss.

"Dime, mi Mazu. Are you okay?" he says when he can't take the silence anymore. His fingertips run across her back in an attempt to remind her of his presence.

The touch and invocation of the pet name, taken from the Chinese goddess who protects fishermen and sailors, breaks Eva's reverie. She turns to look at him and gives a heartbreaking attempt at a smile. "Entonces tu eres un papá."

Her eyes are soft, full of tenderness and compassion. A tightness eases from his shoulders. "No," he swallows deeply. "I'm a stranger. That's what this dinner is about on Saturday, so Gai and I can meet."

"And then?" she asks. It's the one question he doesn't have an answer for.

Logan lets her go, leans forward, and rests his elbows on his knees. His palms make the perfect cradle for his forehead. "Depends on him. Veronica made it clear she won't force Gai into anything."

For so long the future has been a set thing: stay in Chile, work on the ship, and come home to Eva. Pete and repeat. Now he's got all these unknowns and possibilities. The churning of his stomach calms when Eva wraps her arm around his waist and rests her cheek on his shoulder.

"Malachy. You will meet your son in four days and he will love you."

He chuckles, allowing her presence and voice to soothe him. From experience he knows if she's able to give comfort it means her own feelings are within control. "What makes you think so?"

"Because how can he not?" Her voice drops to a whisper, closer to his ear, "I am always thinking you would make a wonderful father."

They've never talked about children. Eva can't have them and Logan wouldn't, living on the run. Even now that desire is limited to Gai. But this tells him Eva has thought about it, has imagined him in that role and thought him worthy.

"Eva –" he starts, his voice thick.

"Shhh." She runs her fingers through the hair above his ear then shuffles closer to place a kiss on his cheek. "Tell me about your son."

* * *

 

**Veronica**

Once again the FBI motor pool fails Veronica. All she can get is a boxy sedan with blind spots and too much leg room for someone her size. Stretching to reach the pedals and constantly turning her head to see around the damn thing doesn't help the tension knot between her shoulder blades. Damn auto industry is so proud of anything they can slap the "American Made" sticker on, they forget to add "One size fits most". Like those stupid t-shirts that bear that tag, she swims in this thing.

She taps her finger splint against the steering wheel, keeping time with this week's pop star of the moment. It's music she loathes but it fills the crevices of her mind without letting loose any painful memories.

She's not sure which is worse – driving this tank on the busy freeway or parallel parking it in downtown Neptune. The city planners would do well to add a public garage; it's not like they're preserving some quaint tourist town in wine country.

Ahead of her, to the right, a delivery truck starts the distinctive _meep meep meep_ to signal he's backing up… and leaving. _Yes._ A spot big enough for the beast of a car a mere block away from where she's going.

The driving courses the FBI blessed her with aren't much help when parallel parking. It takes two tries to maneuver close enough to the curb without kissing the cars at each end of hers. If anyone parks closer while she's gone she'll have to drive over them to get out. Something that doesn't bother her at all. The Audis and Lexuses on this block could use a little personalizing.

A quick glance at the clock over City Hall shows it's just after one. Perfect. Three hours between this stop and picking up Gai at his grandparents. Leaves just enough time to swing by her dad's apartment and get the things she needs. It's fortunate he's out of town until tomorrow; not only is Veronica short on time she doesn't want his scrutiny. Or his questions. And she especially doesn't want his opinions.

_Opinions of love, kiddo,_ she can hear him say. Locking the car door, she sends an apologetic thought to the Mars Investigations office window a block in the opposite direction.

Four can avoid her dad for four days. That'll give her a chance to explain things to Gai and deal with him meeting Logan. The walk sign turns and she heads toward a brick and glass monstrosity. A green and silver sign dangles in the slight breeze: **Pro Bros**.

_What would Sam say?_

A pebble makes her stumble. Or a twig – something caught her foot. Must have had a sharp edge because there's nothing else to explain the twinge that pulses up the back of her calves. Veronica sighs and shakes her head, unable to dislodge Keith Mars' voice from her head.

She has an answer to the Sam question, one she'll give should her dad pose it. A snorting sound jots out her nose and startles a well-heeled woman passing by her.

Correction - _when_ he poses it. Most of the time the all-wise Keith Mars treats her like an adult but she's sure the subject of Logan will trigger a regression. The argument she's about to Punch and Judy between them dies in her mind; she doesn't have the energy. The past few days have been enlightening but exhausting. There's too much still ahead of her to play the role of Logan's advocate with her dad right now, even in her own mind.

A test screening is needed first.

The glass door is heavy under her hand. While the outside of the building is cold and austere, on the inside it's a Tuscan summer. A saturation of warm yellows, oranges, browns and greens that could be retro-tacky under a less deft hand.

The receptionist is your standard pretty and gives Veronica an acknowledged wave as she walks past. An assistant's desk about a hundred feet down the hall is unmanned. The lit monitor and half-cup of coffee indicates it won't be for long.

The decision to wait or knock is taken away when the office door opens and Charlotte walks out, a look of delighted surprise at seeing Veronica. "Ronnie!" She swoops over, using her two superior inches of height and three inch heels to swoop down and envelop Veronica into a hug.

"Hey, Charlotte," Veronica smiles when let go. "How are you?"

"Busy, trying to keep this one in line," she throws a thumb over her shoulder, toward the closed door behind her. "I thought you were in Peru? When did you get back?"

"Paraguay." Veronica doesn't know why she bothers with the correction. Geography isn't one of Charlotte's strong points and most of her travel is restricted to five star hotels with a staff that's fluent in English. Char could visit the world without ever really leaving Neptune.

"Right. For a case – what happened to your hand?" Charlotte studies the splinted digit, concern drawing in the features on her far too perfect face. Poreless skin, naturally arched brows, and symmetrical features compliment the toffee-rum hair and whisky eyes. The joke was you could feel drunk just looking at Char; she even has a natural, double set of eyelashes that are so long they get tangled.

_Bitch._

Except she wasn't. Char was one of the sweetest women Veronica had ever known, with just enough arsenic to make her palpable. Probably the only way she'd spent eight years married to –

"Dick!" Charlotte yells. "Get your ass out here."

A deep voice shouts, muffled because of the door, "Hold on, babe. I'm on the phone."

The last thing Veronica needs is her guard dog barking at her in the hallway. "It's fine. I came to see him - I'll just go in."

When Veronica slides past her Charlotte growls and points a warning finger in her face. "Okay, but just 'cause I'm crazy late. Call me later? I want to know what's up with you."

"I'm sure Dick will tell you." He would, too. Everyone understood you didn't tell Dick anything you didn't want him repeating to Charlotte; the woman had wiles Veronica was sure even spies didn't possess. Nor would they want to. _Ick._

"Then I get the short Dick version." Charlotte pulls a vacant expression and holds up both hands, her voice deepening four octaves. "Babe, dude, like, it's crazy what happened. Ronnie got in some wild shit. They're tapping her to star in the next Kill Bill." She drops her hands and rolls her eyes. "My guy's not too good on the details."

Veronica laughs and waves as Charlotte turns down the hallway. Three steps from Dick's office she calls, "Char?"

"Yeah?" Charlotte pivots to walk backward.

"Keep your phone with you, huh?" Veronica, hearing the concern in her own voice, tries to make her words softer. "Dick might need to talk."

A look passes between them, one shared by those who understand what it means to love men. Especially strong men like Sam or stalwart ones like Dick who refuse to admit when things are less than sunshine and fucking rainbows.

_Or ones who pretend they're both until they break._ This time she lets the thought of Logan stay in her mind. After all, he's why she's here.

She should've spent the drive cataloging and organizing what to tell and not tell Dick. The Gory story, _isn't that an appropriate title,_ and the final, friendly terms she and Logan landed on go in the Yes pile. Everything Petturi related goes in the No pile.

But there are a million other, tiny details she'll need to decide on the fly. One she won't talk about is the moment she had in that little room in the FBI when she told Logan that Gory was dead. For a brief, horrible minute, she hated him. Hated Logan because he could come home when Sam never would.

"I'll be back in an hour," Charlotte promises after some hesitation; Veronica knows it's only because of their long, three-sided friendship she leaves at all. Even though Char's aware of the dark places in Veronica and Dick's shared past she respects her role there.

Two breaths, that's all Veronica allows herself before she turns the handle and lets herself into Dick's office.

The room is half business office, half bachelor pad. At least three game systems are attached to a sixty-inch flat screen and framed prints of surfers hang on the walls. Conversely, the glass desk is covered in charts and what looks like sales reports. Dick leans back in a black leather desk chair and lifts his eyebrows at Veronica; he's still on the phone.

"We need two more guys in plumbing—",

When Veronica glares at him Dick backpedals, "—I mean we need two more plumbers, doesn't matter if they're guys or chicks."

She rolls her eyes and plops down on the arm of the couch; after all these years he knows how to piss her off. Which is obviously Dick's goal since he winks at her.

"Yeah, Barry. Let me know when you narrow it down. Thanks, man." After hanging up Dick comes around the desk and scoops Veronica up. "Ronicans! What the hell, babe?"

"Dick," she returns the brief hug. "Just got back into town. How's it going?"

A sling-back chair faces the couch and Dick falls into it. "We're growing. Which is great, but a total pain in the ass. How'd your case go?"

Veronica sighs and sits down on the couch, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. Then pulls it down again when she remembers the bruise still there. "The one that took me to South America went fine. I caught another one just as I was coming home that – "

Dick reaches out and grabs her injured hand. "What the hell, Veronica? You got out of violent crimes so there wouldn't be any more of this shit."

"It's not important. Dick –"

"The fuck it isn't!" He stands up and looms over her. "Gai already lost one parent this year. Something happens to you and that puts him at zero."

It shouldn't be funny. It isn't funny. Yet, Veronica still finds herself caught up in giggles. Tear inducing, hysterical giggles that has Dick falling back in the chair and donning the worried frown he perfected months ago. The frown deepens when her stupid laughter catches on an even stupider sob.

Veronica wipes at the solitary tear that escapes her eye. "Sorry. It's been a rough couple of weeks. I haven't gotten much sleep."

"Because of your case or that thing with Sam's killer?"

She winces. Most of the time she can ignore Dick's forthrightness and occasionally finds it amusing. Other times he pokes a soft spot with a jackhammer.

"Ronnie, it's supposed to be a good thing." He leans toward her. "Now you can put it all behind you—"

"I found Logan, Dick. That's the real reason I went to South America."

Not the softest of intros but at least it shuts him the hell up. Yet, now that Dick looks like a kicked puppy, she feels a little bad. Veronica scoots closer to the edge of the couch so she can take both Dick's hands in hers. "He's alive. He's okay, Dick."

"But," he shakes off her hands and stands up, moving behind his chair so he can grasp the back of it. Hope and need war with anger in his face. "I mean, who the fuck cares? Why'd you even go looking for him?"

"Does it matter? The point is I found him."

"Good. Tell him from me he can go to hell." Dick shoves his hands in his pockets and digs the toe of his shoe into the carpet while Veronica waits. She knows how he works.

"How is he?" he whispers.

She bites back a smile. "Okay. Had quite a story to tell… "

Dick doesn't ask a lot of questions. Not today, anyway. After two-plus years of tutoring him through college courses Veronica knows how his brain needs time to process.

"So that's it? We're cool with Logan again?" Dick asks, now perched on the edge of his desk, arms crossed in front of him.

Veronica sighs, amused. The man in front of her is dressed in a suit. With hints of crow's feet and a short, grown-up hairstyle, he barely resembles the teenager he once was. Yet he still looks to the leader of the pack to know who's in and who's out.

"Logan and I are cool. You and Gai have to make up your own minds."

"You're going to tell Gai?"

"Yeah, of course," she sighs. "Logan's coming over for dinner on Saturday."

Dick nods and shuffles his feet. "Do you think you should do this now? Gai's just starting to bounce back from Sam, Ronnie. I didn't think the kid would ever talk again."

She doesn't need the reminder. The worst part was how she didn't even notice Gai's silence until Dick pointed it out.

"When's a better time, Dick? At least this way I can tell Gai that Logan stepped forward the minute he knew about him. You and I both get what it's like to have parents who can't be bothered." Veronica knows where Lianne Mars lives, where she works, and that she's been attending AA for a decade. But she hasn't heard from her in fifteen years. Neither Casablancas made it to Dick's wedding, both too busy with their own lives.

Dick snorts. "Yeah, I'm oh-for-two there."

"Besides," Veronica pulls in a breath, unsteady at admitting this truth out loud. It's something she even held back from Logan. "Gai's been wondering about his biological father. Not long after Sam died I found him in my office looking at his birth certificate. Said he wanted to get the time he was born so he could do his star chart online."

"Why didn't you tell him then?"

"Because I believed him," she shrugs. The guilt of how caught up she was in her own grief still weighs on her. "But then a couple months ago I noticed on a progress report he was missing an assignment. I found a chart for Probability of Inheritance buried in the bottom of his backpack."

Dick frowns. "What, like money? There's a class in that?"

"No," Veronica sighs and works to keep impatience from her voice. "Genetics. Like why he has brown eyes and brown hair based on the physical traits of his immediate family. Gai filled in the spots for 'father' with question marks."

" _That's_ why you went looking for Logan." Understanding floods Dick's face.

"Yep. I didn't want Logan to be a question mark for Gai, or a dirty little secret we never talk about. I figured Logan was dead but I wanted to be sure, for Gai's sake."

"But then all's good, right? Logan's alive and Gai's gonna be stoked."

"We'll see," Veronica says, her voice shaky. Yes, Gai was talking again. He'd returned to a version of the humorous, affectionate boy he'd been, but now he was also broody and emotional. His reactions were on such a pendulum swing there was no way to know how he'd take the Logan news.

"Let me know how it goes, okay?"

"Sure." She smiles at him and stands up to leave.

He clears his throat. "Um, Ronnie?"

"Yeah, Dick?"

"Do you have Logan's number?" Back to the kicked puppy look. This was why she came here and why she told Char to be on hand. For Dick, losing Logan was second only to losing his brother and she knows he still carries around a heavy load of guilt for both.

She shakes her head. Logan left without a cell phone and she doesn't know where he and his girlfriend are staying. The letter he gave her only had his number in Chile and the one for his satellite phone left on the ship. "No, but when I see him Saturday I'll ask him to call you, okay?" Veronica holds Dick's gaze until he nods so he knows she means it.

"Ronski?" Dick asks when she turns away.

"Yeah?" she answers, distracted. Her bag is missing, though a second later she finds it on the floor next to the couch.

"Is he still pissed at me? You know, for 'forwarding that tape of you'?"

"What?" Veronica looks up to see a nervous Dick pressing the knuckles of one hand with the palm of the other. She sighs and walks over to him. "I don't think so. You were the first person he asked about." It's a small lie. While Logan did ask about her dad first, that was more for her sake.

Dick won't meet her eyes. "What'd you tell him?"

Her heart wrenches and her arms rise to envelop him into a hug. She and Dick may be friends on their own terms now but it all started because Dick had something to make up to Logan. After everything he's done to balance out the side of good he's still afraid of being a disappointment.

"That you stepped up after he left, and now I consider you a friend," Veronica whispers. She should have said more; when Logan asked about Dick, she'd been flip. No matter. These grown men would have to work out their own problems without basing it on her. She had a smaller, debatably less mature male to worry about. "Dick, I have to leave. I promised Gai I'd be there by four to pick him up. He's dying to go home."

"Yeah, okay."

He releases her and, given the stricken look on his face, she knows it's all caught up to him. "Char'll be back soon. Will you be okay?"

"Me?" Dick gives what almost passes for a smile. "Fine. It's good news, right?"

"Definitely," she says, discounting a skeptic twinge at the complications she worries Logan's presence will bring into her son's life.

She hugs Dick goodbye and walks to her car. His reaction was on par with what she expected and the best she's bound to get from anyone else. Logan left few fans behind.

The car in front of her pulls out, saving itself a dented fender while she extricates this beast of an automobile. Her heart lightens when she passes **Pro Bros** _._ and sees Charlotte going in the front door. With her by his side, Dick'll be fine.

It's a short drive to her dad's, the route long-ingrained from her years working at Mars Investigations. The apartment building is the same, with marked improvements since the new owners took over five years ago. Fresh paint and blooming flowers in all the beds give a cheery appearance. The best part is the hot water now lasts through an entire shower.

Given it's the middle of a work day Veronica doesn't run into any neighbors as she walks past the pool and lets herself into good ole #110. The place is quiet. Her dad never got another dog after Backup passed so there's no patter of feet behind her as she walks to the back bedroom.

When she moved to San Diego Keith Mars made good on his long-standing threat to take over her closet. Based on the labels, the right side is assigned to everything that came Before. Her dad's boxes are marked 'Photo Albums', 'Lianne', 'BCSD' and they total eleven. Some are so heavy she grunts as she restacks them on the floor.

Her colored banker boxes are still there, in the far corner, totaling a mere three. Their weight is harder to lift, given the memories contained, and Veronica can feel a trickle of sweat work its way down her back. These have no labels; they aren't needed. The red box is Lilly – Lilly, Duncan and Logan; everything from the golden years. That one she sets on the bed to take with her as it's part of the whole story she'll tell Gai.

The gray one – the Mom box - she throws back in the closet after removing the black carton underneath it. She's glad her dad isn't home to watch. He never questioned what was inside when she showed up and asked if she could throw the black box in here, but he didn't have to. The sympathetic hand he laid on her shoulder had said it all. If anyone knew about regret and pushing forward it was Keith Mars.

A few minutes later and she's satisfied she restacked the boxes so he won't notice she was in here but that damn cop sense of his needs to be addressed. A note saying she was driving through and stopped by to use the bathroom should do it, for when he realizes someone's been in the apartment. A P.S. that she'll call him this weekend.

Hoisting the boxes once more, she manages to get the front door opened and closed, walk to the parking lot, and rest them on the bumper of her car without mishap. It's when she's digging the keys out of her pocket they go sideways.

With a heavy sigh she lifts the trunk lid then squats down to gather everything together. Since the boxes fell in opposite directions it's simple to keep their contents separate. Everything from the red box Veronica chose herself; the black has a manila folder that shouldn't be in there.

She's only seen it once and had requested the contents be burnt. Apparently her dad hadn't agreed.

Black and white photos fan across the pavement, all eight by tens. He used a telephoto lens but her dad's equipment was top shelf so they aren't grainy at all. A much younger Logan with eyes that are half-mast, telegraphing that loopy, drunken expression she'd seen so many times before. Smiling in one, laughing in another, his tongue down the throat of a busty brunette in a third. In others several people raise their glasses and grin, forming a circle with Logan at the center. He stands on a table, chugging a fifth of something dark and liver poisoning. The photos' succession illustrate the bottle going from full to empty without him breaking for air.

Veronica was first handed these when she was six months pregnant and furious at her dad for finding Logan yet not telling him about the baby. The photographs shifted that anger back to Logan. Knowing what she does now there's no one left to be angry at. Except Gory, but not a lot of revenge can be wreaked upon the dead.

There's more than the pictures in there, though. An unlabeled CD with the 'Mars Investigations' logo, like her dad used to give clients who wanted a digital copy of photographs. She shakes her head and throws it all in the box. Ever the thorough professional, her dad made sure she walked away with the complete results of his investigation.

The trunk closed, she walks around to the driver's side and catches sight of a photomat packet by the wheel well. It must have come from the red box since she'd printed all her own photos since junior year of high school. Flipping open the paper flap Veronica finds the original pictures from Homecoming, sophomore year. Lilly insisted her mom get doubles and gave Veronica the extra set.

In the first picture Lilly stands in front of Logan, his arms around her waist; her head is thrown back and she's whispering in his ear. Logan's unmarked face and round cheeks make Veronica smile. Based on his smirk whatever Lilly said it was dirty as hell. Next to them Veronica and Duncan look like models from a young republican's brochure.

She laughs and gets in the car, throwing the envelope into her bag. God, how she wishes she could talk to Lilly again - tell her what's changed in the past sixteen years. The perfect, adored brother Lilly never measured up to, on the run for kidnapping his illegitimate baby. The naïve best friend now a gun-toting FBI agent with a finely-honed bullshit meter. And Logan. The spoiled, irredeemable bad boy who gave up everything to keep Veronica safe.

The image of sitting down with a grown up Lilly Kane, swapping stories over a bottle of merlot, sobers her. One more thing she had to lose in this fucked up life.

When she fires up the car the dashboard clock flashes 2:43, reminding her Gai is waiting.

* * *

Traffic is heavy; Veronica doesn't reach Lois and Giv's until four-twenty. She parks on the street, not in the mood for Lois' ire should she leave even a drop of oil in her driveway. Before she's halfway up the walk Gai flies out the door. He's got their dog Keller with him, on the short leash.

"Mom!" He falls into her arms, a flurry of argyle. During a brief, fierce hug, she breathes in his distinctive fresh grass and bird-feather scent and her heart settles into its right place in her chest. Finally. He steps back and faux-glares at her. "You said you'd be here by four."

"Traffic." Some of the extra chub from two weeks ago is gone from his cheeks and she has to look a little higher to meet his eye. His usual shaggy hair is cut into a short style, more in keeping with the old-man sweaters he insists on wearing. It makes him look grown up and surprisingly beautiful. She has to work to bring enough oxygen into her lungs and force a half smile on her face. "Did you grow again?"

"Over half an inch," he grins, falling into a Superman stance. His brown eyes shine with pride.

"Nice. What's with the haircut? Grandma didn't make you, did she?"

"Nah, I wanted it." A blush creeps onto his cheeks and he won't meet her eyes. "What do you think?"

_I think there's a girl behind it._ The thought has nothing to substantiate it other than a mother's gut instinct.

Keller whines and paws her knee so Veronica bends down and hugs her. Only half because it's an excuse to hide her head while she blinks back tears. Two weeks shouldn't have brought about so many changes. "I like it," she says, her voice coming out muffled since her face is buried in the dog's fur. "Hey Kell, what's shakin'?"

"She wants to go home, _like me,_ " Gai whispers. "Can we go home now, please, please, _please_?" When Veronica looks up at him he's got his hands together in prayer; the pose reminds her so much of Logan her breath catches.

_Geez, Veronica. Get a grip._

"I have to check in with your grandma, first. Are you packed?"

"Yep, I'll go get my stuff. Where's our car?"

"I got a loaner and drove down from L.A. An intern will pick up mine from the airport and switch them tomorrow."

"'Kay." Gai drops the leash in her hand before he runs back into the house.

Veronica walks reluctantly in the same direction, the dog at her heels. "C'mon girl."

While the ache of Sam's loss is constant, some things make it worse. Facing his mother alone is one of them. Gai left the front door open and she takes a deep breath before crossing the threshold. "Lois?"

"In here," Lois calls from the kitchen.

The house is jam-packed. Though neat and organized, no surface is uncluttered and the multitude of photographs and knickknacks make it a dusting nightmare. Overstuffed furniture crowds one half of the room while the other is stuffed with a baby grand, a full-size harp, and cases of musical instruments. They all belong to Lois. Sam's mom is one of those rare individuals that can play anything by ear and she supplements her and Giv's income by giving music lessons part-time.

When Veronica moves into the dining room her eyes go to the _sons_ wall, to the right of the kitchen entryway. Here hangs every school picture and studio portrait ever taken of Sam and his brother Matthew. Included are the official photos from when Sam was a marine and a newly-minted police officer, as well as Matthew's army photo. Sam's stilted poses used to amuse Veronica until she saw them displayed at the funeral. Now she can't stand them.

The other side of the wall is sparsely filled with school pictures of Gai. When Veronica first visited this house the space was covered with framed albums and memorabilia from Lois' days in various bands. After Sam adopted Gai Lois cleared it off to make room for her grandchildren. Plural.

Sam, Matthew and Gai stare at her from other places scattered around the rooms: family pictures with Giv and Lois, candids of them playing various instruments, staged shots smiling at the camera.

Three obligatory pictures of Veronica. One is her and Sam's wedding photo, the others family portraits given as gifts.

_Yeah, babe. Tell me again your mother doesn't hate me._

Keller keeps in step behind her as Veronica walks the designated, three-foot wide path to the kitchen. If Lois or Giv ever need a walker or cane, the place will need an enema.

"We expected you by four," Lois says when Veronica opens the kitchen door. That's it, no 'welcome home' or hug hello; not even a glance up from where she cuts an onion to view the daughter-in-law she hasn't seen in two weeks. Her pale, lined face carries its usual expression of disapproval.

Lois looks all of her seventy years with one notable exception. Yes, the hair in her bun is gray, the skin on her arms hangs from loss of muscle, and her hands are covered in age spots. But her austere bosom juts out like that of a calendar girl from the 30's. Veronica posits the woman's bra to be a NASA design given its ability to defy gravity.

"I had to stop off in Neptune and it put me off schedule. Thanks for taking care of Gai and Keller. I'm sorry about the extra week."

"Nonsense, we love having them. Now that you're home I'm sure you'll be able to create a more set work schedule." Finished with her chopping, only now does Lois look up and scrutinize Veronica over half-spectacles. "

"I'll try. Is there anything I need to know—"

"What happened to your hand?" Lois walks over and studies her face. Her hand reaches to pinch Veronica's chin and turn her head. It's all Veronica can do not to cringe; the feel of Lois' calloused fingers mixed with the noxious smell of onion is repulsive.

"And your ear is bruised," she accuses, as if Veronica's injuries are her own fault. Lois steps back and crosses her arms, an achievement that makes her look like a genie about to grant a wish.

Gai sidles up next to her. "Mom? What happened?"

Veronica can see the blatant fear in his eyes and she pushes out a practiced laugh. "Nothing. I lost my balance on the ship and fell."

"You said you were on the boat with all those dead agents on the news. Did something -"

"They worked drugs and organized crime. Which I don't. Gai," she loops the leash onto her wrist and takes his face in her hands, "I'm fine, it was just a babysitting job. I lost my footing when we went over a wave."

She kisses his forehead while he grabs her wrists and leans into it. Which he does for all of about three seconds. Veronica can see by the relief in her eyes that he believes her. "'Kay. Ready to go?"

"Sure. Say goodbye and thanks to your grandmother, then put Keller in the car. I'll be right there."

Veronica hands him the keys and the leash and he hugs Lois goodbye. She works hard to keep her face straight while Gai maneuvers to avoid the Mounds of Justice, as Sam always called them. A difficult feat since Lois still has three inches on the boy.

When he's gone she turns to Lois and hisses, "You scared him! You need to be more careful."

"No, Veronica, you do." Lois purses her lips and censure fills her voice. "Lose your footing, my fanny. And after all that boy's been through."

After the stress of the past week it'd feel pretty damn good to get into it with Endora but Gai will come back in if she doesn't leave soon. "Lois, I'm not going to discuss my job with you. Thank you for taking care of Gai and Keller. I'll see you Thursday."

Lois calls after her but Veronica ignores her. And it's because she's a grown up that Veronica doesn't slam the front door behind her, that and the fact that Lois is kind of right. _Bet you never thought I'd say that, huh Sam?_ But it wasn't like she planned on a wrestling match with an armed man. Or another one when he had a knife. Sometimes these things just happen.

Gai has rolled down all the windows. Keller hangs her head out of the backseat, tongue lolling, while Gai dangles the entire top half of his body out the window. He drums on the door. "C'mon, Ma. I promised Fish and Mike I'd meet up with them."

Veronica pushes his head in then walks around and climbs in the driver's side. "First night I'm back and you bail on me?"

"I talked to you every day. And who stuck me at Grandma and Grandpa's for two weeks so I couldn't hang out with my friends? I'll be home for dinner."

"Fair enough," she sighs and starts up the car, causing the radio to blare the latest hit from the auto-tune gang.

Gai falls forward and covers his head. "My ears! They're bleeding. Quick, Kell, save yourself!"

Keller leans her chin over the back of the seat and whines at Gai. With an eye roll Veronica snaps off the stereo. "Get up, drama queen, and buckle your seatbelt. Stop freaking out the dog."

"Your fault. How do you listen to that crap music?"

"Language," she admonishes and checks the street before pulling out. It's a fifteen minute drive from Rolando to Golden Hills, including a detour to pick up her mail at the post office. She'll need every one of those minutes; once she walks in the house everything she got away from in South America will be there, waiting for her. "Give me something new to listen to, then. What about that sax player, the one you told me about. Hawk?"

"Oh yeah!" He leans over and digs his phone out of the backpack by his feet. "Coleman Hawkins. Mom, he was amazing. Totally on the front lines of bebop."

During the drive Gai plays her different songs, narrating each one with facts and tidbits. Veronica listens, looking over once in a while to revel in the excitement in his face and voice. He's doing well. Even a month ago he wasn't this animated.

When she comes out of the post office Gai has his feet on the dash; he drops them when she snaps her fingers. His legs splay out in the roomy car, knees knocking back and forth. "Do you have any gum?"

"In my bag." Like Logan, the child is always putting pens in his mouth, biting his fingernails or, most common, blowing on an old harmonica Lois gave him. Gum is a necessity to have around.

He rummages and pulls out a pack of cinnamon Trident, his favorite. "Want a piece?"

"No thanks."

"What're these?" He pulls out the picture packet she threw in her purse earlier and opens it. "Whoa, Mom. How old were you?"

Veronica takes a breath. Though she hadn't yet decided how to broach the subject of Logan, this could work. "Sixteen. It was Homecoming, my sophomore year of high school."

"Zach went to Homecoming last year. He didn't wear a tux." Their oldest neighbor kid sets the benchmark for all things right or wrong in high school, as far as Gai knows. He's also a punk of the first order. She had her eye on Zach's younger brother, Cameron, who is a peripheral friend of Gai's and seemed destined to follow in Zach's footsteps.

"Most people don't dress formal. We decided to go all out that night."

"Uh huh." Already bored Gai's putting away the pictures when she sees him stop. He pulls the foursome photo she'd looked at earlier a little closer to his face. Flips to another one, this time a close up of Duncan and Veronica.

"That was Duncan Kane, my boyfriend back then. The girl is – "

"Yeah, your friend Lilly. I recognize her from the picture at home."

"Right. And the other boy in the picture is," she swallows, breathes, "Logan. Logan Ech-"

"Cool." Gai drops the pictures on top of her bag, bored. "Hey, can we get Chinese tonight? Grandma fed me nothing but wholesome. If Uncle Dick and Grandpa hadn't both taken me out I might've gone into grease withdrawals."

"Sure," she agrees.

"Can Mike and Fish come?"

Veronica shakes her head. "I just got home. I want a quiet night with my kid."

"Please mom? Just for dinner and they'll go home right after. I promise."

The pictures lie on top of Veronica's purse and remind her how important friends are when you're twelve. Two weeks of only seeing Lilly at school would have been a hardship at that age. In truth she's missed the other kids almost as much as Gai; they've only recently started coming around on a regular basis again.

"Okay, but tomorrow night you're mine, got it?" They have four days before Logan comes to dinner. Waiting one more to talk to Gai won't change anything.

He grins at her. "Got it." On their street a passel of kids are gathered, skateboarding and hanging out. "Hey! There's Mike and Fish. Let me out?"

Veronica pulls to the side and is surprised when Gai reaches across to give her another quick hug. "I'm glad you're home," he whispers. He grabs his skateboard, jumps out and hangs in the open door. "You want me to take Keller?"

"No, I got her. Be in the house by seven," she calls when he shuts the door.

Gai waives his hand and runs over to his friends. Keller whimpers and sniffs heavily, so Veronica reaches back and scratches her in reassurance. "He'll be home soon."

_4:50 p.m._

The air is stale with an undercurrent smell of old house - that unmistakable scent of crawl spaces and plaster walls Veronica loved the first time she stepped inside. The craftsman bungalow has other charms, but it's the smell she likes most.

Liked, anyway, back when it meant she'd come to see Sam.

Keller wiggles and prances in a circle. It's all Veronica can do to get her to sit long enough to take off the leash she always has to wear at Giv and Lois'. While the dog whines and runs from room to room, smelling the air and every corner, Veronica follows behind her. Everything seems in place. Their televisions and computers are still here; Gai's room is its usual chaotic mess but his video camera sits on the same shelf it's lived on for the better part of a year. Connie's been in and out on her usual cleaning days so everything is dust free.

No one else has been around to pile up clothes on the bedroom chair or leave their dirty socks on the floor by the bed.

After the inspection Keller comes up and whimpers, rubbing her body against Veronica's legs. Veronica leans down and wraps her arms around the dog's neck, giving consolation as much as taking it. "Me too, girl." She shakes her head when Keller settles into her doggy bed by the front door, resuming her eight-month long vigil for Sam to come home. There are two security panels to remove, one in the door leading from the kitchen to the garage, the other from the garage to the backyard. Though Keller's favorite places to lay are now by the front door or on the porch, she always goes out back for her needs.

It takes three trips to bring in Veronica and Gai's luggage, the enormous bag of mail, and the two boxes from her trunk. The latter she stashes in her own closet, on top of Sam's shoes.

She puts her suitcase on the chair to unpack it. Throws all the clothes in the laundry basket, puts her dopp kit on the bathroom sink to deal with later, and tosses Logan's letter into her nightstand. All of which she manages without looking at the bed.

There'll be time to face that later.

Flipping around the channels until she finds a rerun of _Bones_ for background, Veronica settles on the couch. The coffee table is large, square, and uncluttered. Per Sam's edict only art is on the walls, photos are limited to three per surface, and all mementos have a use. After ten minutes in Lois' den of treasures she again appreciates their house's minimalist esthetic.

The mail can't wait. She sets up three piles: Recycle, Shred, and Important. The recycle pile adds up fast. Most of their bills are auto paid online and they get e-statements so the shred pile is small. Even fewer items go into 'important'. A reminder of the 'Family Night' for the junior high Gai's entering in the fall. Three forms from the policeman's pension fund. A refund check from their dental carrier.

And a white envelope with a Corona, CA return address. Inside is another envelope addressed in her own handwriting, with _Refused_ scrawled across the face.

Her hand shakes as she hides the letter at the bottom of the 'important' stack and picks up the phone.

_You've reached Detective D'Amato, of the San Diego Police Department. If this is an emergency, hang up and dial 911. Otherwise leave a message and I'll call you back._

"Leo, it's Veronica," she says. "I'm back."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Seven months is a long time to wait for a story so bless you all for being so patient and coming back. I really don't know how to convey my thanks for every tumblr comment, fan mail or ask, fanfiction PM, and review that let me know you were still in whenever I was ready to return. The best I can offer is my gratitude, hug noises (very grunt-sounding, be glad you can't hear them) and the other half of the story you let me know you were waiting for.
> 
> A/N: If you're glad to see this story again a huge thank you needs to go out to Nevertothethird, the best beta and friend I could ask for. Her insight is all over this chapter and the ones to follow. This story, and I, would not be the same without her. (20 More Days!!!)
> 
> A/N: Another huge thank you to Ghostcat3000 and her mom. If there is anything about Eva that rings true as a Chilean it's because of their input and patience with my gringa ways.


	13. Two Steps Forward

_Tuesday, May 12, 11 p.m._

**Logan**

They've gotten through it. First all the reveals about his actions on the ship, then Veronica and Gai, and their long talk afterward. Through a delivered Thai dinner and afterward Eva had Logan go over each day on the boat, interested in the mystery as much as the few details Veronica shared about Gai and their lives. Her dismay and sadness at Sam's death touched him but he also saw the relief there. The same he would feel if Eva encountered Eduardo, unmarried, and came through it more committed to him.

After making love they curl up together, Logan's chest against Eva's back. His hand rests on her hip and her fingers sweep over it, back and forth. Her voice reaches him in the dark. "Malachy?"

"Yeah?"

"I need to say something to you."

Logan waits while Eva rolls onto her back. "I'm listening."

"It hurts me, before, to know you still are in love with Veronica."

"I – "

"Shush," she interrupts and somehow, even with no light, unerringly places a finger across his lips. "My turn to talk. It hurts me but I think hey, tontita, this is the deal you make, ¿cachai?"

 _Fuck I'm the biggest loser in loserville._ Logan grabs her hand and clasps it between them. "Eva, I'm sor – "

Her other hand yanks his head down to hers and she gives him a quick kiss. "No, I am speaking. Anyway, I am okay. You stay in love with your Veronica but you love me, too. And it is me who gets your kisses and your silly jokes and your sexy talk. Me with who you fight and laugh and you who holds me when I cry."

Logan remains quiet when she takes a breath, understanding she's not done. "But now you say it is different. That it is me who has your love. This is so?"

"Yes."

"Okay, good. But Malachy you must know…"

She sniffs and Logan lifts a thumb to the corner of her eye. He wicks away the tear he'd suspected was there and follows it with a light kiss. "Know what?" he whispers.

"That never again I will be okay with halfway."

Lilly wanted to be worshipped despite how she often treated him like shit. Veronica's love came with expectations and conditions; understandable given who she was at the time but not so easy for a fucked-up eighteen-year-old to live up to.

Eva wants is his whole heart, which is all he ever wanted to give. "Neither will I," he promises.

_Wednesday, May 13, 2 a.m._

It wasn't long until Eva drifted into sleep - probably the first good rest she'd had in days. Logan dropped off for a few hours but now he is very awake. Saturday looms ever nearer and it feels like he's walking into that dinner blind.

Logan slides out from under Eva and makes sure she settles in before he slips on his boxers and grabs the laptop. His fingers type 'Sam Zare' into the search box and he jumps to page eight of the results, wanting to read everything about Sam's death in the order published. Overshoot; he's into items posted several years before. He has to filter the stuff that belongs to Veronica's Sam: an alumni webpage for San Diego's Crawford High Class of 2001. A blurb about Sam being the keyboardist in a local San Diego band. That he ranked 42nd in the San Diego's Rock N Roll Marathon in 2010. The wedding announcement for when he and Veronica married.

None of it is pertinent to today, yet Logan clicks on the alumni page. And gets nothing. Only registered users can access the bios of class members.

On page five he hits upon a _U~T San Diego_ article titled, 'Second Chances'. The story lauded an organization founded by a San Diego veterinarian who worked with local shelters. The vet, frustrated by the number of good dogs put down due to trauma from abuse, created a rehab program. He placed animals he viewed savable with experienced volunteers to help them.

One of his volunteers, Sam Zare, worked with the U.S. Marine's K-9 unit for three years and earned a bachelor's degree with a major in veterinary sciences from the University of Nevada, Reno. Though Sam ultimately pursued a career in his minor, criminal justice, he loved working with these 'lost dogs'. He's quoted as saying, "A gentle hand, consistency, and love can bring about great changes. I've seen it even in the most extreme circumstances."

The article was written a year after Sam married Veronica, leading Logan to wonder if it's just the dogs Sam referred to.

He moves forward in the search. A few more mentions of Sam's rank in various runs and bike races and venues for a band. Most of them at bars and local charity events.

_An athlete, a musician, and a saint. How did you have any time for family, Sam Zare?_

A pinewood derby race. The names _Sam and Gai Zare_ jump out at Logan and he clicks on the link. A little boy in a blue uniform and yellow neckerchief sits on the shoulders of the man he recognizes as Sam, both shouting, their arms raised in victory. _Seven-year-old Gai Zare places first…_

Green bile of jealousy rises in Logan's throat and he pushes it down. A few more mentions, scattered through the years. Sam named as lead officer in a bust. Sam and Gai performing a sax and piano duet at a school talent show, this picture small and grainy. An event Facebook mention of Sam and Veronica finishing the Rock-N-Roll half-marathon together two years ago, their rank in the fifteen-hundreds.

Then last September, on the front page of _The San Diego Sun,_ 'Police Detective Slain in Routine Robbery'.

Through the few scant articles Logan pieces together the story. Sam and his partner, Harold Slatnick, were following a tip on a case. Dispatch came through about a robbery in progress less than a block away and they were first on scene when a hooded perp fled the store on foot. Sam followed the suspect while Detective Slatnick went to check if everyone in the store was okay.

Details are sketchy about what happened after that but Sam's partner found him dead five blocks away. A bullet pierced the femoral artery in his leg and he bled out, despite the efforts of a young woman named Jennifer Weston. Police arrested Weston and charged her with first-degree armed robbery and second degree murder. She pled not guilty and was awaiting trial until a month ago when she changed her plea. After which a judge sentenced her to nine years for the robbery and life in prison for the murder.

Logan shuts the laptop and pushes it away from himself, sickened. First, because the initial story lasted less than a week. A cop killed in Southern California is a common event and even less interesting when the killer is caught right away.

Second, because it took so long for Jennifer Weston to change her plea to guilty. He'd bet another thirteen years in exile Veronica had something to do with it, which meant she spent the past eight months investigating her own husband's murder instead of dealing with his loss.

_What are you going to do, Veronica, now that you have all the answers you were looking for?_

"Malachy?" Eva's voice reaches him in the dark, rougher with sleep.

"I'm here." He shuts down the computer and slides into bed. Eva settles herself again, warming him in the cold room.

* * *

_3 a.m._

**Veronica**

_The dappled sunlight shines through the canopy of trees and makes patterns on her legs. Footsteps crunch on the dry leaves behind her._

" _So, you didn't tell him." Sam settles beside her, his arm bumping hers._

_Her head falls to rest on his shoulder. "Not yet. It isn't easy."_

" _It's won't get any easier, babe."_

" _Maybe it would," she sighs at the kiss he lays on top of her head, "if you were here with me."_

" _I'm always here."_

" _It's not the same."_

" _For me either."_

_They sit and watch a quail search in the grass in front of them; the silly plume on top of its head bobs with each step. Sam's hand rests weightlessly on her thigh; Veronica grasps it and runs her thumb over the fine black hairs on its back. "Am I doing the right thing, Sam?"_

" _I can't tell you that."_

_Irritated, Veronica pushes his hand away and turns to glare at him. She's alone, nothing but birds and bugs to keep her company._

Veronica's hand seeks the expanse of bed next to her and finds it empty, the sheets cold and crisp with disuse. Her hitching gasp draws Keller from the front door, the sound of toenails on hardwood followed by a weighty head lain on Veronica's hip.

She pushes Keller away, slides out of bed, and throws on a tank top and shorts. The techno station on her phone is the only one she listens to anymore, a mindless repetition of electric sound. She waits to put on her tennis shoes until she's in the garage so she won't wake up Gai.

Once on the treadmill it doesn't take long to work her way up to a full-on run. The music, her heartbeat, and exacting breaths create their own rhythm. A rhythm that is soon met with the image of herself on the shooting range popping off rounds in the same interval as her feet hitting the belt.

* * *

_8 a.m._

**Logan**

"Hey, flojo, despiertate. I am tired of waiting for you."

Logan squints open his eyes against the sunlight and sees Eva leaning over him, wet hair making dark spots on her green knit dress. "Wha timz it?" he groans.

"Time for you to get me out of this smelly room. Get up or it's cosquillas-time." Her fingertips slide under the covers and press threateningly at the apex of his thigh.

"A little to the left and I'll be very awake." He waggles his eyebrows at the cleavage that tantalizes him in her bent-over position. "Never mind, already there."

"Hmph, like this is different from all the other mornings." When her fingers dig in at his sole ticklish spot Logan laughs and tries to push her away. The resultant wresting match ends with her dressed rucked up around her thighs and his boxers on the floor.

Afterward, as their breathing slows, she kisses his neck, his shoulder, his ear. Anywhere but his mouth. "Malachy," she laughs when he runs his stubble over her neck, "¡Basta! Now for both of us we need a shower, and you need to clean your teeth."

Logan chuckles. "Can't help you there. I'm like a pauper, with only the clothes on my back. Not even a toothbrush."

"We can fix this." She stands to pick up the clothes he left scattered around the room. "For today you use my toothbrush and we will buy us both new ones. And you, some clothes. Estos parecen trapo de cocina." _(These look like a dish towel)_. When Eva shakes his ratty cargos a paper falls out of the pocket and she picks it up. "What is this?"

"What? Oh, Veronica's number and address in San Diego."

Eva unfolds the paper and hands it to him, her face a question. "Not only hers."

_Trina Echolls, (310) 555-7172, 420 Evelyn Pl, Beverly Hills._

Logan snorts and folds the paper back up. "Beverly Hills. Figures Trina would end up in the motherland."

"Malachy," Eva scoops the paper up from where it fell on the floor. "How far is this? Are we to go and see her?

"No."

"¿Por qué? Trina, she is your sister."

"That's not my fault. I didn't adopt her."

Eva's face jaw settles into what Logan's come to think of as her 'determined' setting. He rolls his eyes and clambers out the side bed, away from Eva and toward the bathroom. "Let's just drop it, okay?"

He's glad for the excuse of nature to close the door and get away from Eva's resolute face, even for a minute. In the time between him flushing and putting toothpaste on Eva's brush, she opens the door and leans against the jam, her arms crossed.

"I forget before. When you call me from the ship you say she is looking for you."

"If Trina was looking for me," he says around the toothbrush, "it was for one of two reasons. Money," he spits and resumes brushing, "or another shot at getting our name in the headlines. She got the same inheritance I did when our dad died and if she blew it that's her problem. As for exploiting our family, fuck her." He spits again and rinses off the brush, then his mouth.

"It has been so long, she may be different," Eva entreats.

Logan leans against the door and glares at her. "Do you know the last thing my sister said to me?"

Eva shakes her head. He'd told her a lot about his mom and his friends in Neptune, but only the bare minimum about his dad and Trina. This was one of many stories he'd left out. "Our dad was just exonerated and then someone murdered him. Trina made the whole thing about her. Every channel tuned to 'The Trina Show' for three days while she broke down repeatedly over the loss of this _great man_."

"Yes, you say she never believes he kills your Lilly."

"No." It's a marvel he can still be so angry about this. "She didn't, any more than she believed he beat the shit out of me every time the door closed."

Eva places a hand on his waist but doesn't say anything.

"The day of the funeral, before all the media festivities Trina put together, we met at dad's lawyers to hear the reading of the will. When she found out we got equal inheritances she called me a bastard and said he was worth ten of me. That I was the one that should have died after testifying against him."

"Malachy, people say things when they have grief. It is possible she now wants to say she is sorry?"

He chuckles and turns on the tap to heat the shower. "Trina wouldn't know the word if it was written in a script."

"Pero- "

"A year, Eva. If she wanted to apologize she had a year before I left. But according to the tabloids she was a little too busy blowing Pop's money on coke and buying her way into bad movie roles." He didn't care then and he cares even less now.

_Keep telling yourself that. You might even believe it._

The water from the shower is still cold and the pressure lousy; Logan steps in anyway then curses when he realizes he got his stitches wet. He isn't surprised when a moment later Eva steps in behind him and wraps her arms around his waist.

"Mirame," she orders.

Logan resists, not wanting her to see the hurt that's never really gone away. Eva picks up the soap and runs it over his chest, his back, and his arms. "You maybe are right. But look what you find when you see Veronica again. Maybe Trina will surprise you."

He turns and leans back so he can wash his hair without getting shampoo in her eyes. It's a good excuse to avoid facing her. "Eva, you don't know what kind of people I grew up with. My mother was the only decent one of them and they destroyed her."

She puts the soap in the wall niche and presses her hands against his cheeks so he can't look away. "No, this is not true. You are decent."

"I wasn't." Logan laughs bitterly and shakes his head at her when he can see she's about to ask. He's not in the mood for a recap of the stunts he pulled as a teen. "I meant it before. Drop it about Trina, okay?

"Malachy, if you can be different why can your sister not be different, too?"

Logan snatches up the soap and backs up a step to place himself under the spray, stitches be damned. "Why can't you just leave it alone?"

Eva also steps back, avoiding the elbows that fly while he soaps up the washcloth hanging there and scrubs at his skin. "Because I see how you watch me with mi familia. Especialmente con mis hermanos. I think you miss Trina."

"Jesus, you really don't get it. When I look at you guys I don't miss what I had, I never had it!"

Ablutions complete, Logan moves the curtain enough to get out of the shower but leave Eva secluded inside of it. She wisely stays in there while he towels off, which is enough time to reconsider his anger.

The first time he went home with Eva it was overwhelming. Her four older brothers, grandparents, aunts, uncles, plus everyone's spouses and offspring showed up to meet him. Just keeping track of the first cousins alone was more than he could manage. At that time the big topic of conversation was something dumb her brother Matias had done; the guy made Dick look like the bastion of good choices.

Once alone in her childhood room Eva went on a tirade about Matias, an endless rant punctuated with lots of hand motions and swear words. Then Logan made one, just _one_ crack and all her anger turned onto him. From later observations he found himself glad he'd made the comment in front of Eva instead of her whole family. The Blauvelts firmly believe in protecting their own and, thanks Eva's Dutch grandfather, they're large, physically intimidating people.

Given her experience, of course she views family as something to covet rather than to avoid.

Logan wraps the towel around his waist, crosses his arms, and rests against the bathroom counter. When the water turns off Eva slides open the curtain and grabs her own towel while managing to not look him in the eye.

"Hey," he tries.

She doesn't answer and instead towels herself off as if he isn't there.

"I'm sorry. It's my fault for never really explaining what Trina was like." He draws a breath and studies the yellowed, plastic casing around the bathroom fan. "Going to see her is a bad idea. Trust me, you don't need that kind of poison into your life."

"Oh, so now you must protect me from the scary sister."

"Yeah. Is that so wrong?"

Eva hangs up the towel and picks up a brush to rip through her hair with hard strokes. "No. It is wrong to use me as the excuse."

Logan frowns. "Excuse for what?"

"For your fear. The moment we talk about Trina you are like an animal in a corner. You try every way to escape and when you cannot, you growl and bite. ¿Por qué? What has you so scared?"

"That she'll pick the flesh from our bones and feed them to her hellhounds?"

Eva's rolls her eyes; her hands fall to her hips as she waits for him to give her a real answer. Instead of looking at her Logan studies the brush clenched in her fist, running over what she's said about his being scared. "What if what I said is true? If the only reason Trina is looking for me is so she can use me in some way?"

Maybe it's because of the quiet way he speaks instead of engaging in the fight they're on the edge of having. Or how his shoulders slump with his admission. For whatever reason, Eva drops the brush in the sink and settles herself against his chest, his face between her palms. "So, you are afraid to hope?"

"Trina's burned me before." At Eva's confused expression Logan amends, "I mean she's disappointed me."

"Then I think we are better to go and see her now."

"Why?"

"Three reasons. Uno, because with your real name you are now easy to find. If Trina is as you say, I do not want her to surprise us at our home."

"Trina in Chile? Only if the beaches were made out of coke and Alejandro Fernandez Almendras personally handpicked her for a part in one of his films."

"Dos," Eva takes Logan's hands in her own and rests their foreheads together, "you have waited so long for your life. It is only because Trina asks Veronica to look for you that you have it back."

"Oh, come on. It's not like Trina was looking to do me a favor."

"Maybe she is. How do you know?" Eva pulls back to look at him. "Y tres, God has given _you_ a second chance. Can you not give that to your sister?"

Logan sees the love and concern behind Eva's request and, for the first time, it occurs to him the burden he's placed on her all these years. Since he came with no family, it fell to her to give him the unconditional love and safe haven he never knew growing up. While he made friends as Malachy there were none he trusted with his secrets. Eva's fulfilled every role – from lover to friend to family – without once complaining.

If all Eva asks in return is for Logan to give his sister a chance, how can he refuse? Worst case scenario Trina will be her usual self and Eva will understand why he wants nothing to do with the fame-hungry hag.

"Okay, we'll go," he whispers.

* * *

_8 a.m._

**Veronica**

With Gai off to school Veronica turns on the local news and sets about to plan her day. Her boss gave her the rest of the week off, time she desperately needs to get her house in order: they have no groceries and are dangerously low on pet food. She hasn't balanced the checking account in more than a month and there are a dozen voicemails on the house line that have to be dealt with.

She starts with the voicemails, discarding the pre-recorded messages and jotting down ones from Wallace, Mac, and Sam's old partner, Harry, now retired and living in Montana. Each of them get a text that she's home and will call them later in the week. A message from a reporter receives a hard delete.

The checking account is easy, but tedious. Thankfully the college days when she watched with panic as the numbers plummeted between deposits are long gone. Sam inherited the house from his grandfather so they've never had a mortgage. His life insurance added a ridiculous amount to their already nice cushion and topped off the college fund for Gai. Their few remaining living expenses are more than covered by her salary. Veronica sets aside the housekeeper's check to pin to the fridge and the one to give Mike's mom for afterschool care on the days Gai's not with Lois.

She studies the balance in her savings account and hears the voices of her family and friends encouraging her to do something big: take Gai on a trip, buy a snazzy car, or invest in various stocks. All things she might consider if the money wasn't covered in Sam's blood.

Besides, the funds are best kept where they're accessible. She's got her own ideas of appropriate ways to use them, when the time is right.

The grocery lists goes fast, comprised of staples and the ingredients for some easy meals. The hardest is planning a menu for Saturday night; Sam was always the cook when they entertained. He thought the whole point of having people over was so he could experiment, and delighted in his disasters as much as his triumphs. Dick received so many failed meals he started coming over with take-n-bake pizzas just in case.

But Saturday requires a foolproof dinner. After some thought she jots down the ingredients for a dish she hasn't made in months, one she knows Gai loves.

Last she pulls up a letter saved to her hard drive, addressed to Jennifer Weston at California Institution for Women in Corona, California. She changes the dates and prepares it to mail for an annoying second time.

_The woman did plead guilty to killing my husband - the least she can do is honor my request for a face-to-face. Lois is right, nobody has manners anymore._

Veronica's cell phone rings and she smiles at the caller ID before she answers: _Wallace_. "Wow, impatient much. I said I'd call you this week."

"Yeah, yeah, I heard that before. When d'you get home?"

"Last night." She leans back and puts her feet up on the desk. "It was a long haul. How's Sunnydale?"

"Sunny _vale_ , V. The one with no night life. And same as usual. Boring. Went on a date with a fine lady last night and was tucked in by eleven."

Veronica laughs. "That sounds more like a serious lack of game."

"Hey now, I didn't say I was alone."

"Ew. Changing the subject. How're the kids?"

"Good, good. Natalie just finished her tee ball season and Hank's signed up for his first basketball camp." Wallace's voice drops an octave. "They're both excited about their mom's wedding next week."

"How are you with that?"

"Fine," he says, sounding resigned. "Mary and I had our shot, you know? I just want her to be happy. But never mind me, I called to get the inside scoop."

"On what?" She can hear the caution in her own voice.

"On what?" Wallace snorts into the phone. "You go to South America on some mystery case and you don't think I want to live vicariously through that?"

Veronica has a pang of regret for the days when Wallace knew the ins and outs of her life. Long distance is just as hard on friendships as relationships. "The case was boring, a skip trace that led nowhere." She could leave it there but she has a need for guidance. What else are best friends for? "I, um, needed a reason to go down there and follow Logan's trail since I took so much time off work after Sam."

"Logan?" Confusion is evident in Wallace's voice. "I thought you told Trina you weren't going to pursue that?"

"I changed my mind."

"Uh huh." He's quiet for a while and she waits him out. Veronica can practically hear his eyes roll when he mutters, "You're going to make me ask, aren't you? Did you find him?"

"Yep."

"And?" Wallace prompts when she volunteers no more information.

"And I hope you have awhile because I've got a story for you."

It's easy with Wallace, since he knows the backstory of the sex tape and Gory. What she has to reiterate is that Logan's sober and was working as a hairy mute.

"All right, all right. You had me until mute, but now I know you're pulling my chain. That guy couldn't resist making at least one smartass remark even if he was locked in a room with voice activated nuclear bombs." Wallace laughs at his own joke, and Veronica at how close to reality he's just hit.

_Sorry, buddy. That part I can't tell you about._

Wallace's voice comes through the phone, quieter now. "What I don't get is how you took two days to recognize him. That is not the Veronica I know; even with the hair he can't look that much different."

"Um," she hedges, "he does and he doesn't. His face is thinner and he's got lines around his eyes. His nose—." Veronica stops herself and breathes in, then out. Hears the echo of Sam's voice in her head. _Just talk, babe. What's it going to cost you?_

"Wallace?"

"Yeah?"

"I did recognize him, sort of, but it made no sense," she swallows and forces her voice to raise above a whisper. "I thought it was all in my head. That after everything, I'd finally gone 'round the bend. It scared the hell out of me."

"V - "

"But at the same time," Veronica interrupts. If she stops now she may not get it all out. "I didn't care. I told you how Lilly came to me after she died, and I still dream about Sam. Why not Logan? If going crazy's the price to pay to see everyone I ever loved, it's worth it."

Wallace's silence speaks loudly of concern. She huffs a laugh and rolls her eyes. "Then I found out Logan was for real and went off on him."

"I bet," he says, but he's not laughing with her. "Veronica, have you thought about seeing a counselor, or joining one of those grief groups?"

She sighs, exasperated. "Don't do that, Fennel. I'm fine. Anybody would have thought they were going bonkers, given the circumstances."

"All right, true enough," he relents with defeat in his voice. "How're you feeling about the whole Logan thing now?"

She sticks out her lower lip and blows wisps of hair off her forehead. "Upside down. I went down there to finish this, not start a whole new drama. But also happy. Gai's lost so much. It's time he gained something."

Not just Gai. She can't be sad that Logan's alive.

"No offense, but Logan only ever brought trouble."

This reaction is what she expected, and not the last time she'll encounter it. "He's different, Wallace."

"How?"

Veronica thinks about the thrum of restless energy that has settled into a quiet grace. The way Logan's shoulders relaxed whenever that Eva woman's name came up. Conversely, she also saw the regret that deepened the lines around his eyes when they talked about Gai. The maturity she's never seen in him before.

"I can't explain. More grown up? He quit drinking and has stayed out of trouble all this time. He's also this weird mix of sadder and happier than before. Anyway, we had a rocky start, but we figured things out."

"That's it?" The tease in Wallace's voice is forced, but at least it's there now. "Kind of disappointed. You mention Logan and I expect murder and mayhem."

"Well..."

"What, seriously?"

"Another long story, and not his fault. I'm saving the unclassified, abridged version for next time I get some Wallace face time."

Wallace forces out a sharp breath. "I won't get to So Cal for months. That's just mean."

"Aw, and I thought I was a marshmallow." Veronica picks up a pen and doodles on a pad of paper. "Wallace, how do I handle this with Gai? Logan's coming over on Saturday and I don't know what to tell him."

"Why you asking me? 'Cause things turned out okay with my dad I'm some kind of expert?"

"Maybe?" she shrugs. "If anyone can relate this situation it's you."

"The way I see it, Gai's already two steps ahead where I was. He knows Sam wasn't his real pops and you never told him Logan was dead."

"So he should be fine with it?" she scoffs. She's written down Sam's full name and finds she's etching ivy leaves in the letters. "I'm worried how to tell Gai. In some ways he's still so closed off. He might refuse to meet Logan, or -"

"Pull a supafly and have a dossier waiting. Turn a meeting into an interrogation."

Veronica laughs but the image is accurate. The kid didn't fall far from the Mars side of the family tree. "Yeah, kinda."

"So?"

"So," she throws the pen down and palms her forehead. "Like you said, you never knew about your dad until he was in your life. But if you have a missing parent, they still exist out there. When shitty things happen and they don't show up you hate them even more."

Her back has tightened and she stands to loosen it up. Wallace's silence goes on so long she almost hangs up on him. "Veronica," he finally says, "your mom's a loser and doesn't deserve you. You know that, right?"

"This isn't about her," she breathes out, reassured when her voice isn't too shaky. "It's about Gai. I want him to give Logan a chance and he won't do that if he comes in on the offensive."

"'Ronica, girl, I gotta say something to you, and you're not gonna like it."

"Well don't hold back Fennell. You never have before."

"You're looking for a way to control this 'cause that's what you do. But it's up to Gai how he handles it."

She snorts and switches the phone to her other ear. "I get that. I told Logan that after they meet it's up to Gai if they have a relationship."

"Which is you telling _Logan_ he's got no say in how this goes down. I'm talking about before that. My guess," Wallace stops to take a drink of something; Veronica can hear ice shift and the sound of his swallow. "You're trying to plan it out like it's a job or somethin'. Get all your people in position and make sure everything goes the way you want."

"Am not," Veronica protests.

"Uh huh. Then tell me why you didn't bring Logan home with you last night. Why wait four days?"

She did have a plan: use the boxes she got from her dad's to give Gai the whole story so he'll understand why everything happened the way it did. Yet, the boxes have been in her closet for almost a day and going through them is the last thing she wants to do.

"It's not a strategy, Wallace," she lies. "I'm just trying to figure out the best way to tell him."

"And I'm telling you, you're over thinking it. At the youth center and they're telling us all the time to shoot straight with the boys."

"I ask for advice and you give me basketball metaphors?"

Wallace ignores her. "They say use the KISS method and be on hand to answer questions when they're ready to ask them."

"KISS method?"

"Keep It Simple, Stupid. Tell him the basics and let him feel how he's gonna feel."

She picks up a picture frame from the desk from four years ago. They were camping and the guys had etched a circle in the dirt for a game of marbles. Veronica was too far away to hear their conversation but it was Gai talking and Sam intent on listening, the game forgotten between their knees. Sam was so good at letting Gai lead their interactions.

When Sam died there was no time to prepare or strategize; she had to get to Gai before the news did. They had a euphemism in their family when an officer or an agent died in the line of duty. Gai understood when she sat him down, took him in her arms and whispered, "It's about Dad. He did his job." Gai didn't need more. He went still in her arms and then began to shake. When his tears soaked the front of her blouse she could finally allow her own to fall. Questions came later.

"Veronica, you there?"

She puts the picture down and takes a steadying breath. "Yeah, Wallace. Just thinking about what I'll have engraved on your best friend award this year."

"Forget it. My trophy case is out of room as it is."

Wallace was right; she didn't need to give Gai a presentation with years of pictures and mementoes to justify what happened between her and Logan. She just needed to talk to him.

* * *

_9:30 a.m_

**Logan**

Eva comes out of the bathroom redressed and made up. Her hair hangs in a glossy sheet down her back and the silver jewelry is the perfect offset to her green dress. Logan, however, looks a bum in his tattered and wrinkled clothes. So it's like any other day, minus his mop of hair.

His eyes sweep her up and down and he lets out whistle of appreciation. "You look gorgeous, Gorgeous,"

She shakes her head and smiles at him. "You are ready? I will call the taxi."

"I already called; they'll ring the room when he's here."

"Do you call Trina?"

"No. I thought we'd just swing by. Take our chances."

"Malachy, no. That will be so rude. Even in my family, where everyone lives so close, they always call first."

Logan sits on the bed and pulls her onto his lap. "Listen. What you've got - it's like a Chilean Rockwell painting. Seeing Trina will be more like walking into a viper pit."

"So it is better we give the snake no warning?"

"Yep, gives us the advantage."

"No. Imagine if we do not call before we go to see Maria, la tía loca -"

"Which tía Maria? You've got three and, sorry sweetheart, but they're all a little nuts."

"The one that likes to sing en pelota _(in the nude)._ "

"That's my point. You shouldn't have to wait until New Year's when Trina's half-drunk to find out who she really is." He shudders, "I still get flashbacks whenever I hear 'Un Año Más."

" _My_ point," Eva puts a finger in his face and yanks it back when Logan makes to bite it, "is family deserves at least the consideration you give to strangers."

"This might be easier if we stop calling Trina family. I'm familyless, okay? She's just the last person I'm forced to be related to."

When she opens her mouth to argue, and he knows she'll argue, Logan shakes his head firmly. There's no scenario he can imagine where visiting Trina will go well but he's not going to give her the chance to put on a show. "We're going, like you asked. But we're doing it my way."

Eva rolls her eyes. When the phone trills she leans over to hit the speaker button; a man on the other end informs them their car has arrived.

Logan scoops up her off his lap and puts her on her feet. "I'd carry you, you know, door to chariot service, but there's stairs and you're not exactly light."

"Debilucho." She shakes her head at him and laughs when he moves behind her to twine his arms around her waist. They move in tandem out to the landing where they have a full view of the parking lot. And the limo waiting for them.

It's a long thing - sleek, black, and ostentatious. Eva tilts her head back to look at him. "Malachy – "

"C'mon. We're burning daylight," Logan says and pulls her down the stairs, toward the limousine. The driver, a black man somewhere in his thirties, jumps out and holds open the door for them.

Eva stops and pulls on his arm. "Malachy, no. It is fine if you do not want to take a taxi but we can rent a car."

"We can't drive here, not without international licenses. Taxis you have to wait around for. But this way, Mr." he points the driver who utters out the name, 'Jameel'. Logan shakes the man's hand. "Jameel will wait for us. Right, Jameel?"

"Yes, sir."

"See?" He turns back to see Eva eyeballing the limo like it's something to fear. "Hey," he whispers. When her eyes meet his Logan smiles. "It's no big deal. I grew up in cars like this. My mother hated driving in Los Angeles so she used a limo when we came here without my dad. A lot of people do."

"But it is too much. I am not dressed for this."

He sniggers. "I've been in limos with people sticking their bare asses out the window. Most kids at my school rented them for prom just so they could say they had sex in one." He squints one eye at her, in thought, "But, if clothes are the problem, I have an idea -"

"Por favor, para de hablar. Si no, nunca mas me va' a ver desnuda. Te lo prometo" _(Please stop talking. If you don't, you will never again see me naked. I promise you that.)_ Her eyes flit to the car again and she bites her lip.

Logan can tell she's wavering. "C'mon, Eva. You've heard that saying, 'When in Rome, do as the Romans do'?"

"No."

"Oh. Well we're in Los Angeles, baby. So let's do as the assholes do."

The corners of her mouth twitch and she steps around Logan with a warning finger in his face. "Okay, I will ride in this car. Peri mi poto will not stick out a window. And no sex." As she passes Jameel, who is holding open the car door, she lays her hand on the man's arm. "If you see this brat get out of the line with me, you will help to throw him off a cliff."

"Um…" Jameel's brows draw together in uncertainty and he turns to Logan while Eva climbs into the car.

Logan tilts his head at the driver. "Would you believe that 'throw him off a cliff', loosely translated in Spanish, means 'pull over somewhere dark and secluded'?"

"No, sir." Jameel grins widely.

"No sir. I'm Logan, she's Eva."

"Malachy, get in here." Eva orders, looking up at him through the door.

Jameel mouths 'Malachy' in question. Logan shrugs and raises his voice. "It's a sex thing. See this one time – "

Eva's hand reaches out of the car and grabs his waistband, pulling him so he falls onto the seat. She wrestles him down and presses a warning knee into his stomach. Logan can hear Jameel's laughter as he shuts the door behind them.

"You are being so bad," she hisses. "Like a little boy."

His hands reach around and cup her ass. Given their destination he doesn't know why he's in such a playful mood but he's not going to fight it. "Mmm. Say that again. Say I'm a bad little boy," he teases.

What he expects is for her to press that knee into his stomach and take the air from him. What he gets is her whispering in his ear, "Niño malo." Her knee moves so she's straddling him and the kiss she lays on him has Logan fumbling for the privacy glass button.

Eva laughs and gets up to sit across from him. "No, it is my first ride in a limusina. I will not waste it."

"Waste it? You really flatter a guy," he responds dryly.

"You will live." She points up to the sunroof. "I want air and sunshine. This car is un ataúd."

It's less than ten miles to Trina's Beverly Hills address, during which Logan's mood shifts from spirited to maudlin and Eva takes in the lavish houses with awe. "It is just like in the movies. Do you grow up close to here?"

"About six blocks that way," Logan says and points west.

"Who are your friends here, when you are a child?"

He chuckles, the rancid memories welling as he looks out the window. "I didn't have friends here. I had strategically planned playdates based on whose parents could further my dad's career."

Eva's silence feels like a rebuke, though he knows she wouldn't mean it that way. It doesn't stop him from wanting to rip the veneer off this overpriced, coveted neighborhood so she can see the scales on its underbelly. "See that house with the blue door? I got forced to go a birthday party there when I was ten. The kid of some producer my dad wanted to work with. I accidentally drank the grown-up punch, got drunk, and puked all over the back bathroom. And that one. Ashley Olsen gave me my first handy in the playhouse when I was twelve, before I moved to Neptune."

"Handy?"

"Yeah," Logan pounds his fist up and down over his crotch, rolls his eyes and moans.

Eva slaps his hands. "Stop! You are a child. Why are you doing that?"

Logan knows she means he was a child then. "You grow up fast in these hills. Especially in my house. Want to talk about some good memories. Not sure which is my favorite: walking in on my dad plowing the nanny or when he," his fingers form air quotes, "'accidentally' slammed me against wall for spilling juice on his script." He roots around the back of his head and grabs Eva's hand to place her fingertip on the fine scar. Three cheers for plastic surgeons on retainer. "Feel that? Ten stitches."

_What are you doing, dude? Eva doesn't need to know every detail of this shit._

It's being in a limo and in this neighborhood again. All his childhood fears and anxieties are making him lash out at the person who least deserves it.

"Jameel," Eva calls, "park the car, por favor."

Jameel pulls the car against the curb and Eva slides up the privacy glass. "He is buried here? Your father?"

"Hollywood Forever cemetery," Logan chuckles. It tastes as bitter as it sounds. "Nothing but the best for Pop."

"Malachy, do you want to go? I remember I am so _angry_ at Eduardo. If he turns the car left and not right then maybe… no es importante."

"No."

"But it helps to stand by his grave and tell him what I am thinking, what I am feeling. It has been so long since you have come – "

"Not a chance," Logan interrupts and shifts his body enough so it's not touching hers. "I've never been to that bastard's grave and I'm not about to go now. You deal with your ghosts your own fucked up way and I'll deal with mine my way. ¿Cachai?" Even as the words leave his mouth waves of regret-nausea roll through him.

_Wow. Who needs to visit dear old dad when you can channel him in the back of your very own limo?_

Eva's eyes are wide and her mouth hangs open as she stares at him. "Shit. Eva, I'm so sorry. Being here, I thought I was okay but it's messing with my head a little."

Instead of answering she turns and stares out the window in contemplation. Logan waits her out, his hands digging into the nape of his neck in penance. After what seems like forever Eva speaks, still facing the glass. "It is me who is sorry. I am always looking at your life through my experiences. Being here," she indicates out the window, "listening to your stories, I see how different our worlds are and how much I do not understand."

"You understand enough. Besides, I don't like talking about my dad. I didn't exactly share a lot of details."

"Maybe soon you will be ready to tell me." She turns toward him again and pulls his hand into her lap. "But I am thinking this. You know I am, how do you say, 'pushy'?"

"Um," Logan hesitates, not wanting to hurt her any more than he already has. "I just said that when I wanted to goof off instead of helping you around the house."

"Yes, well, as long as we are here I will not be pushing any longer. Not about your sister, your father, or your son. I am riding along with you."

He covers his smile with the back of her hand and kisses it. "You mean you're along for the ride."

She rolls her eyes. "Sí, this is what I say. So, Mr. Logan Echolls, what are we to do today?"

It's the first time she's said his whole name and, for a second, the effect is otherworldly, like slipping into another dimension. One where Veronica stands on the _Penelope_ and addresses him as Malachy.

Then everything shifts back and Eva is still staring him. Logan evaluates the easiest option: they could hide away until that dinner on Saturday. Find a secluded beach rental and spend the next few days eradicating tan lines. Then on Sunday go home and slip away from his old life with no one but Veronica the wiser.

_Sounds good. GREAT._

But Eva calling him by his real name indicates her acceptance of his true self. This, he now knows, is why he'd been most worried about bringing Trina back into his life, and why he tested Eva by spewing garbage from when he was a kid. Despite everything he wasn't sure Eva could still love him when she knew where he came from.

"Whatever I want to do, you'll go along with. You mean that?"

"Yes." She meets his imploring stare.

It's his choice, with no pressure from Eva either way. Yet, having come this far, he's surprised to find he's so fucking tired of hiding. Logan reaches across Eva and rolls down the glass a short inch. "Jameel, take us to that address on Evelyn Place, please."

He's meeting Trina again for himself but the proud look Eva gives him doesn't hurt.

_10:15 a.m._

Trina's house is modest from the street vantage point; there's no large lawn or security fence to block access to the front door. In the driveway is a mid-range red convertible Mercedes. Jameel opens the door and helps Eva out of the car.

Logan knows how this is going to play out – Trina will play nice until she hits him up for what she wants. At which point he can tell her to go to hell. "We shouldn't be too long, Jameel."

"Take your time, sir – Logan," Jameel corrects.

Logan stares at the front door, a wide, wood thing large enough to fit in a castle. Eva grasps his hand but waits until he's ready to lead, then follows him up the walk.

A maid in full uniform answers the door. When the maid takes his name and leaves to see if Trina is available, he turns to Eva. "I feel a little ripped off. The whole time you worked for me, you didn't once wear a uniform."

"If you ask me to you will feel ripped off then, too. Especially tus bolas."

Though she was serious Logan chuckles and turns to kiss her cheek. She squeezes his hand once, then again when the door opens.

Trina stands there, almost identical to when he last saw her. Some wunderkind plastic surgeon has done a great job with a face lift and eradicated the wrinkles around her eyes. Even her lips are as plump as a young girl's and her hair shines auburn, without a hint of gray. There's not an extra ounce of fat on her and the clothes are all designer, likely picked out by a stylist.

She almost knocks him over with the force of the hug she gives him. A strong perfume fills his nose and makes his head swim. "Logan! That minx Veronica found you after all, didn't she?"

"Hey Treens. Good to see you." _Wow, that was only kinda sarcastic._ Still, her warm greeting sets off that small flutter of hope he knows better than to allow.

Trina snorts and turns to walk into the house, holding the door open for them. "Aw, you almost sound like you mean that."

The house they follow Trina into is white. Blinding white with shiny surfaces to reflect the tract lighting that's everywhere. The only thing to break it up are framed posters of crappy Lifetime movies as well as several good films Logan's positive Trina wasn't in.

The pseudo-Wilson that lives in his head can't resist throwing in a jibe. _Probably puts the posters up as bragging rights because she blew the key grip._

_Or she's living with someone who actually works for a living._

_Like I said._

Scattered throughout the room are several low-grade movie awards, the kind they hand out like participation trophies. Trina sets herself in a chair in the living room and waves them toward the couch.

Logan places his hand on Eva's back and says, "Trina, I'd like you to meet my girlfriend, Eva Blauvelt Carrasco. Eva, my sister Trina… is it Echolls?"

"Of course!" Trina chortles. "Even if I were still married you don't let go of a name like that. It's pure gold in this town."

Eva holds out her hand and steps to Trina's chair. "It is nice to meet you."

Trina smirks and shakes Eva's hand. "You, too."

Logan leads Eva to the couch, cattycorner to Trina's chair but she tilts her head toward Trina and moves to wander about the room, leaving them to talk.

"Well, Logan, where did Veronica dig you up? The detective I hired said he dead-ended in Paraguay. I thought he meant it literally." Trina wings an eyebrow at him. "Though without a body it was hard to tell for sure."

_And hard to go after my share of the inheritance, I'll bet._

"Why were you looking for me?"

"Can't a sister just want to see her brother?"

Trina's face lacks any expression due as much, he's sure, to Botox as a complete dearth of emotions. "Spill it Trina."

Her unblinking stare is nearly a challenge. "For a biopic on dad."

Logan leans back and scoffs, that bit of hope he felt before trampled and left in the dirt, pathetic and sad like a used condom. "No way in hell did you think I'd have any part of that."

She shrugs and crosses her legs. "Well, I figured it was a long shot, but I had to try."

"Mmm, hmm. Well since you got me here, let me officially tell you to fuck off."

Eva's sigh is small as she moves onto the next poster, the only sign she even heard. Trina throws back her head and laughs. "Aw, Logie-bear, you haven't changed a bit. But don't worry," she stands up and crosses to a wet bar in the corner to freshen her drink, "the project's dead."

When she lifts a pitcher of what looks like iced tea toward him, Logan shakes his head. "Please tell me it all hinged on my approval and you'll make my day."

"You wish. Would you like something to drink…" Trina tips the jug toward Eva.

"Eva," Eva reminds her without turning around, "and no, thank you."

"Maybe you'd like to come and sit down?" Trina asks, though it's more of a request than an invitation.

"I am fine," Eva answers, delighting Logan when he sees how her indifference makes Trina frown.

"Fine. Anyway, it fell apart in pre-production." Trina continues talking to Logan as she walks back to her chair. "You being AWOL was only one problem."

A part of Logan wants to walk away from this near miss and not look back. But a larger part, the one that still has to watch the end of every dreck movie or finish each dime-story mystery novel, needs to know what she means. Especially since he's heard of more than one dead project being resuscitated.

"What were the other problems?"

"Oh," Trina shrugs. "The idea was to add clips from real people in dad's life, for authenticity. Not having you was bad enough. Then it came out Aaron Echolls wasn't quite the wronged hero everyone imagined."

Logan studies Trina, surprised. "Not everyone," he says carefully. When she doesn't offer up either agreement or argument he sighs, frustrated. "I'm surprised that didn't make the story more compelling. 'Daddy Dearest' has blockbuster written all over it."

Trina picks up her glass and takes a large swallow. "Well, there might be life in it yet. If you're involved -"

"I repeat, fuck off."

Trina shoulders sag in disappointment. Logan's disgust for her leaves them with nothing else to say. He catches Eva's eye and is about to suggest they take off when Trina's voice, small and regretful, pulls him back.

"I get it, Logan. I do."

"Do you?" He snaps.

She leans toward him, a lackluster attempt at sincerity on her face. "Logan, I'm sorry I didn't believe you before, about dad. The research on this film was pretty in depth. I had to come to terms with the kind of man our father was."

"A lying, cheating, abusive, murderous sociopath?" He crosses an ankle over his knee and can't stop his foot from jolting up and down.

"Well, sure, if you have to put a label on it."

Trina's droll tone and smirk dissolves the last of Logan's anger. The smile they share is dark and brittle, but it is a smile.

Another swallow of her drink gives Trina a reason to look away from him. "Is that all you remember, Logan? The bad stuff?"

"No." He's had a lot of years to replay his childhood. There were good memories; times when his dad acted out favorite picture books or taught him how to ski. Parties where Aaron loped his arm over Logan's neck and boasted, 'my son'. Just enough love and attention to convince a kid it was his fault dad kept getting mad. "But that's what stands out."

"Hmm." Trina pushes her mouth into an impish grin that doesn't reach her eyes. "Then you'll be happy to hear the project wasn't shaping up well anyway. Renny was the director and he put it into his contract he got to make all casting decisions. Let's just say it's not his forte."

The name drop is intentional bait, and Logan hates that he takes it. "Renny? Not Renny Harlin."

"Yep, Uncle Renny. He wanted to do it as a sort of posthumous favor to dad."

Logan chuckles. "The Aaron Echolls story, by the man who brought you 'Cutthroat Island'. That's appropriate."

"Don't be so critical. He's staging a comeback, a Renny-sance."

"Or he found out dad slept with Geena after she divorced Renny and it was payback time."

This is something he could never share with anyone else. For most people Hollywood players are just letters on a marquee; to him and Trina they're the names of grownups who slipped them drinks and talked about how tall they were getting.

Trina chortles and pulls her feet up under her. "That would explain his casting choice for dad."

_Don't ask. You don't care, remember?_

_Fuck it._ "Who?"

"Kevin Federline."

They share their first laugh in more than a decade and it's actually a little nice. With what can only be described as glee, Trina leans toward him and asks, "Want to know who he cast to play you?"

He shrugs. "What the hell."

"An unknown child actor for when we lived in LA, and Jackson Brundage for the teen years."

"Jackson Brundage," Logan searches his mind to place the name. When he does, he isn't sure if he should be insulted or amused. He settles for both. "That chubby blonde kid from 'One Tree Hill'?"

God, Trina used to make him crazy with that show. She secretly wanted Aaron to campaign for her to make a guest appearance so she convinced him they should watch it as a family for 'quality time'. Logan's participation was compulsory so he suffered through it every week. He could never admit the damn teen drama hooked him and that he stealth watched it after Trina left home. A few years ago he caught up on all the seasons he missed.

"Huh." Trina arches her eyebrow at him. At least she tries; it only moves a half-inch. "We stopped watching early in season two and Jackson didn't come on until season, what, four?"

_Man, it's been nice not having a sister._

"What can I say? Sophia Bush was hot." Logan watching the show had nothing to do with a personal investment in Nathan and Haley's relationship. None at all. Embarrassed, he glances at Eva. She's continuing her casual inspection of the room and he's sure she hasn't followed even half of this conversation.

"Mmm hmm." Trina's eyes evaluate him. "I hear Sophia's going for the bad boys nowadays. This look is kind of working for you. Want me to give her a call?"

"Pass."

"Well, if you change your mind." Trina waves her hand dismissively then tilts her head, studying him. "You'd want to get that tooth fixed anyway. And maybe the nose. There's a fine line between bad boy and trash, and you're straddling it."

Logan's hand covers his mouth self-consciously and he has to push it down. "Well, if anyone knows about straddling trash..."

Trina's grin tells him 'point scored'. "It's no problem. My dentist owes me a favor and I know a great plastic surgeon."

"I could tell."

That one she ignores. "So is that a no on the biopic? Now that Renny's dropped out w -," she clears her throat. "They might pull together a decent cast."

 _No way in fucking to the nth degree of hell._ "What's the pitch?" He pulls in a breath and holds it, waiting. Not because he gives a shit about the movie but because he wants to be prepared should it ever get made.

A flash of excitement crosses Trina's face. She leans toward him and her hands animate her words. "Public versus Private. What was really happening behind all the high points in his career when everyone adored him. How lost in stardom dad became so he believed he could do no wrong. And finally, redemption. Right before dad's shot he sees the gunman's reflection in the TV screen. He thinks back on hurting you, cheating on Lynn, killing Lilly. He whispers 'I'm sorry' just as the gun goes off. Final scene is the blood spatter on the TV."

"And so, what? Everyone gets to feel sorry for him? Whose bright idea was that?"

"Mine. Renny and I were talking one night, about how the project had changed and I suggested it."

With all the blood rushing to his head Logan's almost surprised when his knees support him. Eva crosses the room to him and he takes her by the hand. He doesn't try to keep the renewed hatred out of his voice. "Thanks, Treens. We'll have to do this again. It was so much fun."

She jumps up and moves to block his way out. "You're leaving? But we didn't even have time to catch up."

"I'm not going to be involved in the movie, so what's left to say?"

He skates around her and heads toward the door. Eva's clutching his hand hard so hard she's grinding the bones together. Logan doesn't mind, it keeps his mind focused on getting her out of there.

"Wait!" Trina skitters to stand in front of the door. "I'm sorry. I don't know what I did wrong."

Either she's become a better actress or she actually means it. Logan runs a hand through his hair to keep from pushing her out of his way. "You want to excuse what he did, just like always."

"No, that wasn't what I meant. It's just that cinematically—"

"Save it. I have your number. I'll be in touch."

_Wow, look at that. You still speak Hollywood._

"Okay, I… Logan is there anything you need? Anything I can do for you? I mean, do you want money or contacts?"

Trina is the most selfish person he knows. For her to offer help means that in her fucked up way, she wants some kind of connection with him. And he'd sooner go into cahoots with a shark.

"Your dentist," Eva speaks up behind him.

"What?" Logan and Trina both turn to stare at her.

"You say your dentist owes a favor. He can fix Mal – Logan's tooth? Soon?"

"Yes!" Trina dives for her purse on the table by the door. Her fingers rifle and pull out a business card while Logan shoots Eva a seething look she ignores.

"Here you go. Just give him my name when you call and he'll do it whenever you want."

"Thank you, Trina. Meeting you was… well, goodbye." The hesitation in Eva's voice would make Logan smile if he weren't so furious.

Trina gives one of her plastic smiles. "You too, ah…"

"Eva," Logan barks.

"Right, Eva," Trina parrots.

Logan holds it in all the way down the walk. He tells Jameel to drive wherever and waits until they're both in the limo before he lays into her. "What the fuck, Eva? I don't want a thing from that pseudo starlet."

"Malachy, she is awful and rude. But I think…"

"What?"

"You say before she never believes you, about your father." Eva takes his hand and pulls it into her lap. "But see? She wants to find you, to tell you she is sorry."

"No, she wanted to turn our family tragedy into entertainment for the masses." The worst part is, he's not even surprised.

Eva sighs in that way that says she's irritated. "It is Trina's company. It is Trina's project. Do you not look at her posters? Her prizes? Malachy, she _is_ lá directora _y_ la productora."

"What are you talking about?" Half the posters in Trina's house were from Hallmark or Lifetime movies he'd never watch. The other half were decent films he did see but would have noticed her name as director.

"All those pictures with women she did for direction. The other pictures and some prizes are from all the same company, Trampoline Productions."

Trampoline was one of the many names he called Trina whenever Aaron wasn't around. He'd noticed it pop up on several films the past few years - good films with large budgets and quality actors. "Trampoline is hers?"

"Sí. If she wants your father's movie made, she can find a way. What she wants is her brother."

Logan grabs Eva's phone out of her purse. He looks up Trampoline and confirms Trina is the sole owner; she founded it five years prior. They've had three cash cow movies in that time and there's even Oscar buzz about a film she produced earlier this year.

Trina has the inside scoop on their family and a roster of decent talent at her fingertips. She has the power to make or break the biopic and, given what she found, she didn't go through with it. Though she seemed willing to if he signed off on the project. Jesus, their family is fucked up.

He throws down the phone on the seat between them and Eva picks it up. "Who are you calling?"

"The dentist, for your tooth."

"What does my tooth have to do with anything?"

Eva runs her fingers along his face. "To me, you are beautiful. Always, you are beautiful. But I see you with the hand," she says and mimes covering her mouth. "Do you want to meet your son with a broken smile?"

Logan thinks back to how self-conscious he was on the ship with Veronica. How many times he reached up to hide the damned chipped tooth. That he did it again with Trina and how he doesn't want that to be the first thing Gai notices about him.

He takes the phone from her hand. "Give me that card."

* * *

_2:30 p.m._

**Veronica**

Chestnut flour. It's the one ingredient for Saturday's dinner that Veronica can't pick up at the regular supermarket, even in a town with as large an Asian population as San Diego. Lin's market sits on an industrial street, surrounded by businesses of all types and sizes. It's second nature to scope the neighborhood after she parks, before getting out. Make sure she notes any unusual activities or people. Count the cars on the street and pay attention to spaces and shadows between buildings.

She and Sam used to laugh when they caught each other doing this. Sometimes they'd turn it into a game, covering their eyes while the other one quizzed them. He was almost as good at it as she was.

Today there's nothing remarkable; less than five cars in total and no loiterers. All the buildings are one to three stories, interspersed with spaces to reach the dumpster lane behind them. All her detective instincts tell her no one is watching as she locks up her car and crosses the street.

The store is packed with product stacked on shelves taller than she is. Nothing is dusty or expired despite the lack of customers; they're busiest before ten and after five.

She's been here several times so Veronica finds the chestnut flour easily enough. Picks up two boxes just to be safe. Like every other times she been in here, she notes the two security cameras, one at the back of the store and another behind the register.

The lone cashier holds a book of Sodoku puzzles, which he puts down to ring her up. "That's it? Just the flour?"

"Yeah, that's it. Kind of dead in here, huh?"

"It picks up later." he tells her. "That'll be six thirty-seven."

Veronica hands him a ten. "I haven't seen you before. You work here long?"

"A couple weeks."

"Do you carry swifts?" He looks up, interested. "A friend of mine gave me a recipe for bird's nest soup. I've had a hard time putting my hands on the actual nest."

"We have them sometimes, through special order. You'd have to talk to the manager."

"Is she here?"

"He, and no, he usually leaves by two. His name's Grover."

Veronica looks at him and frowns. "Grover?"

"What do you want?" The clerks asks, handing her a paper bag with her flour. He points to the store name, painted in the window. "We can't all be named Lin."

She narrows her eyes at him. "Cute. What happened to Tracy, the old manager?"

He shrugs and picks up his Sodoku book again. "Dunno. Left before I came along. Have a nice day."

Dismissed, she leaves the store and makes a mental note to come back when the hopefully more helpful Grover is around.

From her place at the storefront Veronica sees the shadow of a man in a blue shirt dart into the space between buildings. She's tempted to follow but wants to be at the house when Gai gets there. Her work schedule rarely allows her to be an after-school mom.

She's ten minutes from home when her cell rings from where it sits face down on the passenger seat. Veronica prays it's not her dad when she hits the Bluetooth button on her steering wheel.

"Hello?"

"Veronica?"

"Leo, hi." Relief rushes through her. "Thanks for calling back."

"Yeah, of course. What's up?"

Veronica pulls the car to the side of the road and clenches the steering wheel. "Can we not play games?"

"Okay." The way he draws out his words used to be cute; now it pisses her off. "Veronica, I don't want to- ."

"No! No. You said once it was all over you'd get me Sam's case file."

"Yeah, I did. But at the time I thought everything would come out at Weston's trial."

"Well, you were wrong." Red swims at the edge of her vision. Her breath is shallow and she has to force her lungs to pull in enough air. _Be cool, Veronica. Coming off crazy won't help you right now._

She softens her tone to something less punitive. "Leo, I did as you asked. I stayed out of the investigation."

"And now it's over. What more do you need? She confessed."

"Like Abel Koontz confessed?"

"This isn't Neptune, Veronica. There's no great conspiracy at work here."

"Then my seeing the file shouldn't be a problem. And you gave me your word." Silence would be one thing but the grunts and shuffles of a constipated thinker will cause Veronica to grind her teeth down to nubs. "Leo?"

"All right, yes," he agrees.

"Thank you," Veronica pants in relief. "Look, can we meet up? Say tomorrow, or Friday?"

"Sure. Friday."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Enormous thanks to nevertothethird. Not only did you give me a dream weekend, but you once again gave so much of your time and soul to make sure this story keeps going, stays on track, and that Logan doesn't again become an ass. (You're so damn good at that!)
> 
> A/N: Ghostcat, you've not only given Eva the right words to say, saving her from speaking like an American-written Chilean slang website, you brought me back to where I needed to be in her head. Your cultural insight has shaped Eva and her backstory in ways I never expected and she's all the richer for it. Thank you for everything you give to me and this story.


	14. Bless the Child

 

_Thursday May 14, 9:10 a.m._

**Veronica**

The phone resting on her dash buzzes; the words 'No Name' and a Los Angeles area code flash up at her. Veronica ignores the call and glances across the street. Nothing. When her voice mail dings she plays back the message:

"Hey, Logan here. Just checking in to see how Gai took everything. If you want me to come down sooner it's no problem. I forwarded my phone to Eva's so call or text anytime."

After all these years she shouldn't recognize the forced casualness in his tone. She lets herself wonder where Logan is and what he's doing - obviously he's told his girlfriend about Gai or he wouldn't chance Veronica calling back on a phone Eva could answer.

_Well, Echolls, what's your disclosure policy these day? Did you tell her about the kiss, too?_

Veronica leans her head back against the seat and sighs heavily. As if she has any room to think snarky thoughts. Two days into this and Logan has already given up his biggest secret while she still hasn't told Gai anything. She meant to, last night. Then he came home from school and complained he had both a large project due today and a big math test. By the time he put away the books he was exhausted and went straight to bed. Tonight, though. She can't keep putting it off.

Another car pulls out of the employee lot of Shelley, Barnett, Rublin and Sanchez Attorneys-at-Law, and she jots down the plate number. This would all be much easier if the payroll tax records gave information on temps or unpaid interns. Jennifer Weston's mother just _had_ to hire one of the bigger law firms in town for her daughter's defense, dammit.

Three cars line up to pull into the lot and Veronica curses when she misses one of the plates; they're too close together.

During a lull she wishes for Sam. Not because he'd know better how to handle things with Gai and Logan, but because she and Gai's temperaments are too similar. Sam had a way of smoothing out their roughest moments.

Logan's offer to come earlier is a nice gesture and she understands the desire behind it. He'd been so eager to meet Gai it had taken everything she had to delay things until Saturday. Her fingers run over the cell number saved under Logan's name.

Veronica looks up and sees a car poised to enter the street. She throws her phone on the seat and jots down the plate number.

* * *

_5:00pm – Beverly Hills Hotel_

**Logan**

"Again, Daddy! Again!" The little boy cuts through the water with the skill of an eel and grabs onto his father with both hands. The man obligingly picks him up and gives him a heart-stopping toss into the deep end of the pool.

Logan's watched this action a dozen times now every one of them has tightened his fists. The kid is so small and light in the man's hands; it seems wrong to treat him so roughly. Yet what would he know? He can't recall ever holding a child of three? Four? Or any other age. He never cared to, either.

Today he has the strangest yen to lift that little boy up himself, which is a good sign he should get out of the sun. Damn the stitches that keep him relegated to a lounge chair while Eva swims.

He glances at the water; Eva's barely come up for air since they got here. He can see her now, streaking from one end of the pool to the other. She makes three passes before breaking the surface and going down again. No surprise – he's timed her before and she can hold her breath for almost four minutes. Especially in a tame pool compared to the tide she's used to swimming against.

"Three last things, buddy," the father says as little arms snake around his neck.

The kids whines a grating, "Nooo."

"Yep. It's almost dinner time."

"I'm not hungry."

The dad scoops up the boy and places his mouth over the tiny belly. "Well I am. If we don't go soon I'm gonna have to eat you."

"Daddy!" the kid screams with laughter and kicks his feet as the father playfully gnaws at his stomach. "Stop, daddy, stop!"

Logan's sure everyone is as relieved as he is when the dad does stop. The high-pitched squealing is almost as bad as the repeated, _"Again, Daddy!"_ He'd swear if they recorded that and put it on a loop, it could be used as a torture technique at Guantanamo.

_You're so full of shit your eyes are gonna turn brown… oh, wait._

_Are you not hearing this?_

_Nope. Kind of hard to over the sound of you lying to yourself._

Eva's headed toward his end. He slips the phone off his lap and into his pocket, then plops his ass down at the edge of the pool so his legs are directly in her path. He waves them until she surfaces in front of him. "Hey, sweetheart. How're you liking the music?"

"This is maybe my favorite thing in California," she laughs.

Logan laughs with her. Only in Los Angeles would a posh hotel blast movie soundtracks underwater. "I'm heading over to the gift shop for something to read. You want me to pick you up anything?"

"Hawaianas. Cualquier color va a estar bien."

"Hawaianas." He lifts a wet lock of hair off her cheek. "You know, they're called flip flops here."

The amusement that lifts the corner of her lip makes Logan reconsidering the term and chuckle. "I think we can agree to call them hawaianas."

She grabs onto his legs and he holds them out so she can float while they talk. "Does Veronica call?"

The sound of a big splash is, predictably, followed with, _"Again, Daddy! Again!"_

Logan senses a twitch by his eye. He forces his lips into something he hopes resembles a smile. "No. I'll drop off your hawaianas and then head back to the room, if you don't mind. I've had enough of the pool."

The dad reminds the boy he gets only two more 'last things' and the kid does handstands instead of being thrown. Thank bejesus - handstands are quiet.

Eva's frown erases the relaxed happiness she had a moment before. "I will come with you."

Ten seconds. Eleven. _How long can a kid that age hold his breath?_

"Malachy."

"Huh? Oh, um, no. Enjoy yourself and I'll figure out something fun for us to do tonight."

Sixteen. Seventeen.

Her chin comes to rest between his knees as her stare fixes on him. "I can say something?"

"Says everyone before they bring down the hammer." The boy surfaces and Logan takes a breath along with him. "What?"

"At home you are like un gato. When you are not surfing you are relajadito, even when you are awake. Always I must ask you to take me dancing, pero last night _you_ have Jameel take us to club with the latin dances. Then you come at me with the eyes like an animal who is hunting. Today you are frenético.

"I -," he searches his mind for any instance the night before when Eva didn't meet his need with her own. "Last night. We're usually like that when I first get home, aren't we?"

She shakes her head and her eyes fall to his chest. This time when she speaks it's so low he almost can't hear her over the noise of the other guests. "We make love to remember each other, not to forget what life has taken away. Not anymore."

With a thud to his gut Logan knows she's right. By the time they got back to the hotel room after dancing he'd been a toxic mix of exhausted and frantic over thinking what was happening between Veronica and Gai. Powerless to do anything about it he'd put all that energy and frustration toward Eva.

"I'm sorry. It'll be better after I talk to Veronica. Or Saturday when I meet Gai and know where I stand. I promise not to use you like that again."

"Do not make me this promise because I cannot return it."

If the line came from anyone else, he'd consider it sexual repartee and tell her she can use him anytime, anyway she wants. From Eva it's delivered with her stock gravitas. "Why not?"

"Because last night I am using you, too." She stands and pushes his knees apart so she can fit between them. "Malachy, I am doing the best. However, I am also in grief."

"You? Why?"

The cool wetness of her palms line his jaw and she treats him to chlorinated kiss. "Until now I only have to share you with memories."

* * *

_6pm_

**Veronica**

By the time Veronica finishes her stakeout, goes home, and transcribes her notes into something usable, it's time to leave. Usually on Tuesdays and Thursdays Gai goes to his grandparents for sax lessons and dinner and they drop him off afterward. Tonight, however, is their monthly family dinner.

_Joy oh fucking joy._

Poor Keller got stuck with Lois for two weeks. Veronica should leave her at home, yet instead clips on the leash; given the way she and Lois left things she needs a little solidarity. "Let's go, girl," she whispers as she pets the dog behind her ear. "You do that thing where you lay your head in my lap when I get mad, and later I'll give you two Beggin' Strips."

_Three if you keep Gai calm when we get home and I tell him about Logan._

Keller wags her tail and rubs herself against Veronica's leg on their way out the door. Sometimes she thinks the dog understands human speech. A half hour later, as Lois starts in on her, she'd almost swear it.

"So, Veronica. Did Gai tell you he got an A on his science exam while you were gone," Lois asks.

"I understand you guys made up a song about the periodic table." Veronica winks at Gai. "He played it for me."

Lois passes her the platter of the ( _same damn meal every time_ ) pot roast. "Well, it seemed to help. I honestly don't understand how schools pile on so much homework these days. Especially in the advanced classes. Children who don't have a grownup around to help them must have the hardest time."

Veronica can't stop her leg from jouncing until Keller's head weighs it down. "I guess so. Gai's lucky to have the three of us then, isn't he?"

Sam's dad, Giv, methodically cuts up his meat. He's an older, weathered version of Sam; his skin is a few shades deeper and his brows bushier, however the light blue eyes are exactly the same. Giv's nose even has Sam's convex slope, albeit with the growth of an older man. It's easy to imagine black hair over the gray, and smooth skin over the wrinkles. Even their mouth quirks on the same side when amused.

"Papa Keith, too," Gai offers. "He helped me on a paper I had to write about Hoover."

"When did you have to write that?" Veronica studies the knife in her hand. The blade looks sharp enough to cut out her own tongue – just punishment for giving Lois even the slightest opening for criticism.

Gai shrugs and stuffs a double-size bite of roast in his mouth, then talks around it. "Lass week."

"Chew, swallow, then speak," Veronica reminds him.

"Hey," Giv offers, "I bet the guy who invented the Heimlich maneuver got a lot of pats on the back."

Lois' sigh of disapproval underwrites the laughter of the other three. "Gai, I've told you before. Do whatever you like at home, but in my house you'll use manners. Don't talk with your mouth full and get your elbows off the table."

"Sorry." Gai complies, unconcerned; he's used to the way Lois hands out orders and reproach the way other grandmothers do candy. It's less than ten seconds before he forgets and rests an elbow on the table again.

While Gai may not care, the blatant implication that Veronica doesn't enforce table manners at home rankles her. Keller's furry head moves a little farther up her leg and she turns to Giv. He's wearing a celebratory 'We're Number Two!' t-shirt, ordered when he found out his portable toilet business was the second largest in San Diego. "So, how's work these days?"

"Same shit, different day," he quips, getting a smile from everyone except Lois.

"Really, Giv. That joke is as old as you are," Lois sighs.

Giv leans across the table, clasps her hand and brings it to his lips. "Lois, have I told you how pretty you look today?"

The pale cheeks of the older woman fill with color, and her eyes drop to her lap. Giv winks at Gai, "Not so old I can't still make your grandmother blush, eh?"

The way Lois keeps her hand in Giv's and smiles flirtatiously, Veronica could almost like her. Until she catches Veronica reach down to pet Keller. "Is that dog under my table again?"

"She gets confused when there's a lot of people or we're not at home. It calms her to stay close."

"Mmm hmph. Well, as long as you're not feeding her people food."

 _Yes, Endora. Teach me, o wise one._ "I fed her before we came."

The phone in Veronica's pocket vibrates with a call and sneaks a peek the screen.

 _INCOMING CALL: No Name_. Again a Los Angeles area code.

 _Shit, Logan_. _I didn't call him back_. "Excuse me, I have to take this." Veronica goes into the kitchen, closing the door on Lois' glare. She could let the call go to voice mail but any reason to leave the table is welcome.

"This is Veronica."

"Veronica, good. Shelby Tannen with the L.A. Times. I'm writing an article –"

"How did you get this number?" Veronica's grip on the phone tightens. _So much for putting our cells under Dick's plan_.

She turns around and sees Gai standing there, the door swinging shut behind him. He shoots her a worried look as he grabs the milk out of the fridge.

"Friend of a friend. There's been allegations of guards abusing prisoners, especially those convicted of violence against cops. What's your response to the rumors of retaliation against Jennifer Weston?"

Instead of going back to the dining room her nosy kid puts his empty glass on the counter and fills it up. Slowly.

"I have no response to that. Don't call again." Veronica tosses the phone on the counter and ignores it when it rings again. "Gai, you know not to answer any call from a number you don't recognize, right?"

He rolls his eyes, "Like you guys haven't told me a thousand times. Who was that?"

Veronica would lie if she hadn't seen his browser history and alerts. Odds are he'll read the article before she does. "Reporter."

He frowns as he puts the milk away. "What do they want?"

They're interrupted by Giv walking into the kitchen to scoop up the salt shaker, Lois at his heels.

"No, no salt Giv. The doctor said-" Her voice trails off as she stares between Gai and Veronica. "What's going on?"

"Some reporter called mom."

Lois' hand reaches behind her on the counter. Giv lets go of the salt shaker to twine his fingers with hers while they wait for Veronica's answer.

 _Never. This will never be over._ "She was calling about Jennifer Weston, the woman convicted-" Veronica can't bring herself to say the words.

Before Giv and Lois can say anything, Gai barks, "I know who she is." It's been a long running joke in the family that Gai is part old man. This time he really looks it - his face is hardened with a level of bitterness and rage most people take decades to earn. "What about her?"

Three people wait on Veronica's answer. Somehow it's always she who is the bearer of bad tidings, yet, somehow, it doesn't get easier. "Um, apparently the guards aren't treating her well. It's… there's not a lot of sympathy for—"

"Cop killers." Gai spits out. "Good. I hope she's fucking miserable."

"Gaius Keith Zare!" Lois gasps. "Now young man, I know—"

"Lois, stop." Veronica moves to put her body between Gai and his grandmother. She can hear the sounds of Giv taking Lois to another room under protest.

None of the threadbare reassurances, platitudes and lies will help. She promised herself months ago she'd stop trying. "Gai don't. Don't hate her."

"What else am I supposed to do?"

 _Don't turn into me_. For years rage and anger fueled her quest to find justice, even long after Aaron Echolls was dead. She wants more for her son.

"Listen to me. She confessed and will spend the rest of her life in prison."

"So?"

"So it's over." Veronica moves closer and lowers her voice to a half-whisper. "Think about your dad. The kind of person he was. What did he always say about hate?"

Gai's chin quivers and his eyes slide away from hers. "That it keeps you small and stuck."

"Yep, and that's why sometimes you need to let it go to move forward. Hating Jennifer Weston won't bring your dad back."

His eyes move back to hers, harder this time. "You're telling me you don't hate her?"

People always talk about the thin line between love and hate; Veronica's perfected walking the even thinner line that can exist between a truth and a lie. "Gai, I'm angry at her and it'll take a lot of work before I can move on from that, but I'm doing do my damndest."

_See? Not a speck of lie._

"Why?"

She steps forward and takes his face in her hands. His cheeks are hot under her palms. "It's what your dad would have wanted."

_Again, all truth. That is exactly what Sam would want._

When his nostrils flare and he gulps in a breath, Veronica pulls Gai against her and holds him close. Soon he yields and his head melts into her shoulder.

For the several minutes they stand there she's not sure he's crying until he pulls away and leaves her shirt wet. "Sorry," he whispers as he backhands his eyes.

"Do you want to go home?"

"Yeah, but Grandma will get mad."

She ruffles his hair and pulls him down to kiss his forehead. "I'll handle your grandma."

 _Preferably with some zip ties and cement._ The laugh she stifles is stress filled as she pushes him toward the door.

Keller is waiting impatiently by the door to the kitchen. Veronica grabs the leash and makes their excuses while Gai heads out to the car with his backpack and saxophone. When Lois' eyes draw up with worry as they follow Gai out the door, Veronica feels a rare kinship with this woman who's supposed to be family.

"He'll be okay, just give him time. Jennifer Weston changing her plea to guilty is still new."

"What about that counselor I recommended," Lois asks. She hugs Giv's waist when he slips his arm around her. "Gai could go back and see her?"

"He spent a month in her office singing '19th Nervous Breakdown'."

"You never told me—"

"She was useless, Lois." Veronica tempers her tone when she sees the concern in Giv's eyes. "It wasn't her fault. Gai didn't do any better with the other two counselors we tried. You know how stubborn he can be."

"Yes, well, it's no secret where he learned that," Lois sighs.

"Thanks."

Lois' brows draw together and she reaches out a hand, just to drop it again before it reaches Veronica. "I was talking about Sam."

"Oh." The weight of Keller pressing against Veronica's leg is a comfort in the awkward silence. "Well, Gai's waiting for me. I'm sorry about dinner."

Giv leans forward and kisses her on the cheek. "Don't even worry about it. Tell Gai we'll see him Tuesday."

"Will do." Veronica smiles at Giv and keeps it on her face as her eyes sweep over Lois, then goes out the door.

Gai slouches in his seat and stares blankly out the window at the moonlit night. All during the ride home he doesn't talk or even play music; Veronica loathes the silence yet she respects the need for it. When she parks in the driveway and he doesn't move to get out of the car, she leans back to wait him out.

"Mom?" he murmurs once the engine has stopped its cooling noises.

"Mmm hmm?"

"I hate walking in the door. 'Cause I know he's not gonna be there."

She studies his profile and strokes the little tuft of hair over his forehead. "Me, too."

"But I don't wanna move. It'd be worse, someplace I couldn't even remember him living."

In every cell of her body Veronica wants to fix this for him. Rewind time and prevent Sam from chasing down Jennifer Weston. Or fast forward to when this loss has faded to an occasional, dull ache. Instead she has to watch her son learn that grief is seldom some catalyst to a heroic act, as the superhero stories would have him believe. Rather it's a constant companion, sometimes sleeping in the backseat and other times riding on your back while you slog through life.

She won't tell him about Logan, not tonight. She can't do that to him.

"How about if I go in first?" she offers. "Turn on all the lights and the TV, and throw some popcorn in the microwave. We can watch 'Iron Man'."

"Okay," he sighs and closes his eyes. "Good."

Veronica leaves Keller with him in the car. By the time Gai comes in the popcorn is done, the movie queued and she's ditched her jeans and bra for yoga pants and an old sweater. She cooks up some hot chocolate as the sweet to the popcorn's salt and calls it dinner.

The film is a digital version of a security blanket for Gai. Before the end credits he's got his head on her shoulder, they're sharing a blanket, and his limbs are loose as a baby's. She has to push him stumbling toward the bathroom to brush his teeth while she cleans up the dishes.

Chores done, Veronica finds him sitting up in the twin bed that's shoved in the far corner, strumming the three-quarter size guitar Sam handed down to him. Gai's not as skilled with the axe as he is with brass, as he puts it, but he can pick out a tune.

The chords and melody are easy to recognize; George Ezra's 'Blind Man in Amsterdam', dubbed by a much younger Gai as the 'boom-di-di' song. It was one of many in the nightly bedtime ritual until a year ago, when Gai claimed he outgrew such things. Though he doesn't sing the words they're clear in Veronica's mind:

_He said "when your adventure ends your next one will begin"_

_"When your adventure ends your next one will begin"_

"Remember," Gai asks when he stops strumming. "Dad always said, 'Tell me Old Gai, what's your next adventure?'"

While Veronica takes the guitar and places it in its stand Gai scoots down under the covers. It's silly given he's now officially taller than she, however old habits are still habits so she tucks him in and bends over to rub her nose against his. "I remember. Then you guys would make up stories about being pirates or hang gliding off Mt. Everest."

"Or building a studio where dead musicians could come and record."

She chuckles. "Right. The 'Studio of Dreams'."

"Hey mom?"

Veronica sits down on the bed. "Uh huh?"

"What's your next adventure?"

 _Landmine_. "You first."

Gai snuggles deeper into the bedclothes. "I'm gonna…oh sh-," the way he cuts himself off tells her the edit is only for her benefit, "—oot. I forgot. Mike and his parents have to go to Santa Barbara tomorrow for his grandma's birthday. They said he could bring me and Fish."

"I don't want you missing school." _Or Saturday_.

"It's just a Field Day and Lydia's still making Mike go for half of it. They're not leaving until noon. I won't miss anything."

Veronica shakes her head. "Gai, I've been gone for two weeks. I wanted to spend time with you this weekend."

"No problem. Mike's dad has to work Saturday afternoon so we're coming right back the next morning. Please mom? His grandma has, like, the trickest house, with a game room and a black-bottom pool and everything. "

She can't say no - it's been forever since he's asked for a sleepover with Mike. Not that long ago she and Sam joked with Mike's parents about their joint custody arrangement; besides Gai spending most days after school at Mike's, the boys alternated weekends between the two houses. They still refer to the other twin bed in Gai's room as Mike's bed.

If he's going with Mike tomorrow she either needs to tell him about Logan now, or put off the dinner.

_Cowboy up, Mars._

Her hands shake with the adrenaline flooding her veins; she has to work for a smile. "Trickest house? You've been spending too much time with Uncle Dick. All right, go with Mike and Fish."

"Thanks," he grins.

_Breathe. Breathe. You can do this._

"Hey, listen, there's something I need to talk to you about."

"What's up?"

"I've, um," she hesitates. Every debate she's had with herself this past week flies through her head, each ended with Sam's voice: _It won't get any easier, babe_. "I've got an old friend coming over for dinner Saturday. Someone I want you to meet."

"Who is it?"

"His name is," Veronica pulls in a breath through her teeth, "Logan. I ran into him when I was working that case, on the ship. He's in town for a few days."

"Logan… wasn't he one of the guys in those pictures? The ones you had in your purse?"

"Yes."

"Lilly's date, right? What was he doing on a ship in South America?"

"That's kind of a long story.

"Okay," he yawns, "but he's your friend. Why do I have to be here?"

"Well, he's really coming to meet you."

Confusion furrows his brow. "Me? Why?"

"Because." _Keep it simple, remember?_ "Honey, the thing is, Logan's your biological father."

The emotions that play across Gai's face are as eloquent as those in a silent film. Remembering Wallace's advice to let him feel how he's going to feel, Veronica waits him out. Even when he sits up and scoots so his back is in the corner, his knees hugged to his chest, as far from her as possible.

"How do you know? I mean," his eyes drop from hers as his cheeks turn florid, "I get how it works but I thought you weren't sure who he was. Like maybe it was just some college thing - spring break or something like that."

 _He thought he resulted from a random hookup?_ _Oh, well done, Veronica._ "Gai, I know. I've always known."

"Then why isn't his name on my birth certificate?"

"For good reasons." _Foremost that I didn't want you immortalized as Logan Echolls' 'love child' in every rag mag from here to Spain_. "First I you to know that you weren't just 'some college thing'. Logan and I were together. We even loved each other, once upon a time."

As if a door closes right in of her, Gai's face shutters of all emotion. "Until you told him you were pregnant and he took off, right?"

"No, baby. He left town before I even knew I was going to have you. Last week was the first I've seen or heard of him in thirteen years."

"Why? I mean," he cuts her off before she can answer. Anger sluices off of him so strongly it fills the air between them. "If you loved each other and all that, why did he even take off? Why didn't you try to find him? I mean, fuck Mom, isn't that what you _do_?"

The accusation hits with a resounding echo and Veronica does her best not to raise her battlements. "Gai, I want to have this conversation with you. I'll explain everything I can about what happened back then but we don't talk to each other like that."

His eyes fill and he shakes his head, careful not to look at her. "I don't want to hear it," he chokes off as the tears fall, dispelling her defensiveness and leaving only the pain in her chest. "I have a dad. I don't need another one."

"Logan could never replace your dad, Gai. He knows that," Veronica soothes as she reaches for him.

Gai flinches back so hard his head smacks against the wall. "Don't touch me right now."

"We need to talk about –"

"Talk about what? How you lied to me my whole life?"

It's against every instinct to keep her hands clasped in her lap. "I'll own that but at least hear me out."

"No, just get out. I want to be alone."

"Gai—"

"Get out! I said get out!" Like the child he still is, he picks up the pillow and throws it across the room. With his face flooded red and his arms across his chest he reminds her of himself at four.

Against the full force of his glare on her Veronica nods and backs out of the room. The least she can do is given him the time to process. "I love you. I'm here, when you're ready."

In two bounds Gai is off the bed and on the floor in front of her. With all his force he slams the bedroom door and it isn't long until grating thrash metal makes it thrum.

_Well, what's your next adventure, Veronica? Because you sure screwed this one up._

* * *

_11pm_

**Logan**

Eva lounges in the bed beside him; her fingers rub the soft bedclothes. "Always people they are so wonderful, these sheets. I do not like them."

Logan looks around the well-appointed bungalow; perfection reigns in every detail from the marble bathroom to the custom window coverings. Her criticism makes him laugh. "You might be the only person in the world who complains about four million thread count sheets."

"They are too soft, slick like oil. I like them when they are crujiente."

"That explains a lot. Our sheets are like burlap. Burlap dipped in starch."

She glares at him. "If you do not like them, you may sleep on the floor."

"I didn't say I didn't like them." Logan lifts the cover away and leers at her. "But no sheets are much better."

Eva grabs the sheet and pulls it. Logan pulls back and a game of tug-of-war commences that ends with them both laughing, legs tangled, a twelve billion thread count rope twisted around them.

The bottom of his foot runs the length of her leg. "I hate to tell you this but after that waxing and exfoliating, your legs feel like the sheets."

"Eh? Who makes me go to the spa?"

"Hey, I suggested massages, under your edict to relax. You're the one that decided we should go whole hog." They had. Haircuts with deep conditioning treatments, mani-pedis, massages, and facials. Hours of mind-numbing decadence.

Eva's brows draws together. "Hog? There was cerdo in the facials?"

"What? No," Logan laughs and kisses the corner of her mouth. "It means to go for the whole thing."

"Ah, well," she slides off the bed and grabs the hated sheet, wrapping it toga style around her. "I think, porque no? When will I do this again?"

He sits up and watches as she goes to the bathroom and draws a glass of water. "Anytime you want."

"No." She drinks down the glass and fills it again. "The wax, it hurts. Facials and massages? Es super aburrido. I lie for hours and do nothing." Eva's eyes roll as she sits next to him on the bed and hands him the glass of water. "It is worse than shopping."

_Spa treatments are boring? Reason four thousand and twenty nine to love you._

Logan drinks the water down, grimacing at the chemical taste. When he scoots over he pulls Eva down on the bed with him. She generously shares the sheet that, he has to admit, is so soft it's cloying. "You don't love shopping. Spas are boring and the sheets are too slick. Other than the pool, is there anything you do like about L.A.?"

"Sí," Her arm reaches and turns out the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness. "Your Huntington library. This I love. Paintings for me, books for you, and the beautiful gardens. There I can stay all day."

"Well, m'dear, do you want to go back tomorrow? I'll go nuts if we sit around here waiting for the phone to ring. Or, believe it or not, this cesspool has one two other museums. There's also," he finds her hand and counts off on her fingers, "tourist traps like Universal Studios, Le Brea Tar Pits, or Disneyland."

"I think," she answers slowly, her fingers entwining with his, "these places will be full of children."

"So? We'll practice our mean faces and make them cry if they annoy us."

"So never before do you watch children. Today your eyes cannot leave them, especially the boy at the pool."

Under Eva's scrutiny, even in the dark, lying is useless. "It's Gai. I can't help thinking about him."

"Entiendo." When the silence stretches out with no way to fill it she changes the subject. "Malachy, you are so different here. Yesterday with Trina you are mean and sad. Today in the shops you are so, no sé, taking charge. It makes me think I do not know you."

"The clerk was being a bitch, treating us like tourists. And what about you? I've seen you tear apart a guy who looked at you the wrong way but today you were scared to go into a stupid store. You surprised me, too."

"I am not scared," she protests.

He heightens his voice in mockery, " _I have enough clothes for this trip. We only need to go to la lavendería esta noche so I may wash them._ "

"I am practical, not scared."

"Mmm, hmm." He takes a lock of her hair between his fingers and runs the tip of it over her skin. "Well, practically speaking, I needed the clothes even if you didn't."

"No, I go shopping for you yesterday, when you are at el dentista."

Logan runs his tongue over the temporary crown on his tooth, still not used to it. Trina's dentist did a hell of a job with the color match, though, so you'd have to know to tell it's not real.

"Yeah, but the pants ride up in the crotch and that orange t-shirt doesn't exactly do it for me." He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, though she can't see them. "Unless you want to play out a construction worker fantasy?"

Her hand comes up and presses down on his brow. "I know what you are doing."

"I'm trying to figure out why my girlfriend had to be practically bullied into buying some dresses she looks hot in."

She's quiet so long he hooks his leg around hers to remind her he's still waiting. "I do not mind the shopping, pero Rodeo Drive?"

"Better than the clearance rack at Target."

"It is so expensive."

"Exactly, and I was in the mood to spend an obscene amount of money. We're talking really offensive."

Her sigh is weighted. "Never before do you care about spending money. You say money has the taint of evil. Today you wanted to dance with the devil?"

He grins at her rare use of a quote, though given Eva's love for Batman movies it doesn't surprise him. "The devil is dead – both of them. My dad and Gory," he reminds her when she makes a questioning sound. "Using the money doesn't put us at risk anymore. I didn't want to dance with the devils, I wanted to do a jig on their graves."

She lays there, tense and silent. "Eva, is that what was bothering you today? The money?"

"Malachy," she rolls so she can settle her back against his chest. "You have seen my family. We are simple people, not rich. I see Bloomingdales from the car and you ignore me when I say we should go there. It is fancy enough for someone like me."

Logan sets his jaw and breathes through the rush of blood in his ears, angry at the term 'someone like me' and all that implies. And okay, also guilty for the scathing comments he made about the have-nots while growing up. "Someone like you deserves to be dressed in head to toe silk made by your own personal worms. Never let me hear you talk like that again, Carrasco."

Her shoulders shake, though he's not sure whether she's going to laugh or yell at him. "Who is this man? He never before speaks to me like this."

"Keep saying stupid things like that and you'll see a lot more of him."

"Maybe I say this because I am not on steady feet in your world."

"Hey," he shifts them so he's above her. Her breasts press into his chest and reveal her unsteady breath. "Eva, we're still us. It doesn't matter if we're in Chile, California, or Rome."

Her fingers find their way to the back of his neck and play with the little hairs there. "That is what I mean, how big your world is. I understand this for the first time and I am scared."

"It's your world too, regardless if you ever took advantage of it. Eva, we don't have to take it all on at once. Other than hoping we'll have reason to spend a lot of time in San Diego, I'm fine with staying in Chile. In our house. I've been a lot of places and gotta say, nothing even comes close."

The kiss she pulls him down for conveys her relief. They roll over and Logan settles in behind her again, their usual position for sleeping. "Hey," she says, "I am thinking."

"About?"

"My old room, with all your books. Always you say you will put them in good storage, so they will not be ruined."

He, too, has spent this past week considering possibilities for that room. "Yeah, sorry, I keep meaning to. Been busy."

"You say busy, I say lazy. You will be home now. Without all the books, we can paint the walls, make it nice for guests."

"Sure."

"Someday, maybe even Gaius will want to come visit."

Logan closes his eyes over the fear that grips him. "What if he doesn't? Want it, I mean."

"He should know he has a place in your life." Her hand comes back and strokes his cheek. "Sometimes the knowing is enough."

"Thank you," he whispers. Her welcoming a child into their home is an immense emotional leap for her; even her nieces and nephews don't visit.

As they lay there in the quiet of the night, Logan ponders the strength of the woman in his arms, the strength of all the women he's loved, even Lilly. Had his own mom been half as strong his life may have turned out very different. Probably she would have left Aaron the first time he strayed, or at least the second time when he threw her forgiveness in her face.

"Eva, why didn't you tell me before? About Eduardo cheating on you?"

"Why are you asking this?"

Logan runs the tip of his nose over her ear and murmurs, "Just wondering."

She sighs and drops her hand to his hip. "It is so long ago, when me and Eduardo are first married. We were children, ¿cachai?"

"You were both twenty."

"Yes, children, like I say. There is much from that time to forgive, for both of us."

"I'm sorry, about what happened with Veronica on the ship."

"It is okay," Eva yawns and pulls his arm tighter over her chest. His hand cups her breast and he can feel the rise and fall of her chest as she sighs.

He's close to drifting off himself when her words from the other night come back to him. _No, I will not be doing this again. Not with a man who is not even my husband._

"Eva?"

Logan's question is met with a light snore. He smiles, resettles his head behind hers, and breathes in the unfamiliar salon shampoo, along with the deeper scent they made together. The one that signifies his only safe harbor this past decade.

* * *

_Friday, May 15, 3 am_

**Gai**

Thirst pulls Gai out of sleep and he stumbles from his bed for water and aspirin; the stress and heavy music has given him a headache. Some leftover of stubbornness and rebellion keeps him from turning it off.

The door to his parents' room is open and, from the hall light, he can see his mom's not in her bed. Her office is empty and so is the couch, where she sleeps sometimes. Keller lifts her head from her bed and Gai goes over to give her a pet of reassurance.

Once in the kitchen he presses his ear to the door to the garage, listening for the metallic clinks of the weight or the hum of the treadmill. That's when he notices that the old black sweater of his dad's is missing from its hook on the backdoor.

Which means Mom's in the backyard.

To go out to her now, in the middle of the night, means making up, which he's not ready to do. Instead Gai shuts his bedroom door to muffle the music, grabs the blanket off the couch, and settles himself on the kitchen floor. At some point, right before he falls back to sleep, Keller curls up in the hollow behind his legs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Once again nevertothethird and ghostcat have come through to help me give this chapter and Eva my best. Thank you lovely ladies for all of your care and attention to this story. It means the world to me.
> 
> A/N: I haven't done 'previously on' synopses before but if any of you feel it would be helpful, just let me know. Thank you so much for sticking with this story and, as always, I love to hear your thoughts.


	15. These Are My Streets

_Friday 6:15am_

**Veronica**

The sunrise in the backyard is usually peaceful. This morning, with the hours-long backdrop of thrumming guitars and throaty vocals from Gai's music, it lacks the usual solace. Veronica's sure the birds share her relief when the noise stops, even though the silence is accompanied by Keller's emergence from the doggy door. She welcomes the warmth of the furry chest against her calves, numb from sitting out there for hours. The oversize wool sweater that belonged to Sam is only long enough to reach her knees.

"Hey, girl. I guess he's up, huh?"

Still, she doesn't move; Gai will find her if and when he's ready. Minutes later, the acrid smell of microwaved coffee accompanies him to the table. "Thanks, sweetie."

"You shouldn't sit out here. It's cold."

"I'm okay," Veronica says and glances up to get a read on him. "Did you get some sleep?"

His face wears telltale signs of recent tears, and he's got the barely opened eyes that lasts him a half hour or so after waking. One more thing that always reminded her of Logan.

"Don't be nice. I'm still mad."

Despite his words he doesn't move she when touches his arm in conciliation. "I don't blame you. I should have told you about Logan sooner."

"Why didn't you?" Gai steps away to dig Keller's ball out of the bush – one of the annoying ones with a bell inside. He tosses it against the fence, triggering the small tinkle sound, then again when Keller brings it back.

"My excuses? Let's see," Veronica sips the coffee and winces. Gai forgot to add cream. "I've got about fifty, but they all come down to the same thing. I was scared."

"You were?" He ignores the ball Keller drops at his feet and turns in surprise. "You're never scared."

She huffs and shakes her head. "Not true, I'm scared of a lot of things. The past few days I've been really scared you wouldn't want to meet Logan."

This time when he throws the ball there's fury behind it. The harsh _whack_ as it hits the fence makes her wince. "Why should I? I have a dad, I don't need _him._ "

_Unless something happens to me._

Veronica's breath catches at this cold, harsh thought, one she hasn't allowed herself until now. The fear that made her feel like she was walking a tightrope for the past eight months, and even more after the events on the ship, finally has an identity.

"Gai, sit down."

Something in her tone makes him hesitate in his throw before he juts out his chin and shakes her off. "I don't want to."

"Fine, but listen. If anyone understands, I do. My mom took off when I was in high school, remember? But she made the choice to do that. Logan didn't even know about you. He never had a choice."

He clutches the ball and whirls on her. "Yeah, but you did, didn't you? You find people all the time. If he's such a great guy why didn't you want me to know about him?"

"There were reasons." Veronica studies her son-the anger at odds with the hurt in his slender frame-and sends a telepathic apology to her own father. She didn't make it easy on him, either, all those years ago. But neither did he, treating her like an adult with other people's secrets while hiding the truth about her own mother.

She waits as Gai visibly sorts through the questions in his head. "Does everybody else know, that that Logan guy is —that he's the one? I mean, like, Grandpa Keith and Uncle Dick?"

"Yes."

"Did Dad?"

Veronica swallows before whispering, "Yes."

These additional betrayals bring the tears back to his eyes and he turns his back on her. "What about Grandma and Grandpa?"

"No, not yet. But it's not a secret, Gai."

"Well, if it's not a secret then why isn't his name on my birth certificate?"

"At the time there were other people I didn't want to find out. Can you let me explain it to you in my own way? Then you can ask me anything you want."

He runs his toe along a crack in the patio and hands Keller her ball. "You'll tell me everything?"

"Everything I can. Some things are private between me and Logan."

"Does that mean, like," a blush creeps up his neck, "the two of you got back together? Like when you were on the ship did you -"

While the absurdness of a child asking if his parents hooked up is not lost on her, Veronica doesn't want him thinking worse of Logan than he already does. "No, it was nothing like that. His sole reason for coming to San Diego is to meet you."

The tension remains in his body, evidence by the white-knuckled fist hanging at his side. "I don't know if I want to meet him."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yep, you call the shots on this one. No one's going to force you to do anything you don't want."

Gai chews his lip and waits, like he's testing her sincerity. It's a small triumph when he toes the concrete and mutters, "I'll think about it."

"Well, while you're doing that, know that there's no deadline. Logan's a plane ride away whenever, if ever, you want him to come here."

"So, does that mean he, like," his eyes drop, like it costs him in pride to even ask, "lives there, where you ran into him? In South America?"

"Yes. He's been down there, in hiding, ever since someone took out a contract on his life."

Gai's eyebrows lift in surprise and _(there's those Mars genes, kicking in)_ intrigue. It was a cheap move on her part and Veronica mentally kicks herself, wishing she could take it back. "Honey, Logan and I met when we were twelve and it was a long road that led to us meeting again on that ship. How about you sit down and I'll start at the beginning?"

Somehow, in the early morning, sounds like metal chairs scraping concrete are just a little harsher. While Gai settles himself across from her Veronica sips her now-cool coffee and braces herself for what she knows will be one of the hardest conversations of her life.

* * *

_Friday 7am_

**Logan**

Logan wakes up full of energy and an undefined purpose. An experimental finger run over Eva's hip is met with a groan. He tries again, this time ghosting a trail of kisses up the inside of her thigh. Nothing… unless the deep snore she makes counts.

In the mood for neither celibacy nor necrophilia, he takes a shower. The hot water on his back and knowledge of Eva, naked and unavailable in the next room spurs him to take advantage of himself. It's a small indulgence, one he knows Eva won't really mind if she catches him. It's happened before and even led to some good times, the memories of which flit through as he works himself over. And, yeah, okay, there's that time he got to be on the set of _Baywatch_ -Megan Fox leaning over that car engine in _Transformers_ -Eva again, her mouth, her fingers, the feel of the tile under his hands as he looked down and watched her—Veronica-

Instead of the thought spurring him on to completion, like usual, every part of Logan deflates. Pity replaces his arousal, and brings with it a deep concern as he remembers how she looked in his berth on the ship. The way she made her body small and emptied her eyes before telling him her husband was dead.

The purpose he woke up with isn't undefined-it's days of worry without satisfaction. Worry about how Veronica is really dealing with Sam's death and how Gai's handling losing the only father he's known. If Veronica's told Gai about Logan and what his reaction was. About if there's a place for him, even on the fringes, in the lives of these people he's left behind.

Today. If she hasn't already, Veronica has to tell Gai today.

This time, seeing Eva lying naked in the bed with her mouth slack and her hands splayed open, Logan doesn't even consider waking her up. He throws the towel on a chair and dresses quietly, hoping he can steal a few minutes to call and talk to Veronica in private.

As if he heard her thoughts, he finds Eva's cell on the suite's kitchen counter flashing with a text message, from Veronica.

 _2am:_ _I told him. We'll talk tomorrow._

That's it. She was always succinct in her texts but this is ridiculous. He texts back: _Can I call you?_

Nothing. Not while he makes coffee or puts in a room service order. Nor while he flips through four-thousand channels to discover the only thing worth watching is _Overboard._ Again. Not while he signs the room service tab and devours a Western omelet. Every minute snails by while he waits. Finally, when Goldie Hawn is yelling 'Arturo' and jumping off the back of a ship wearing an evening gown, the phone buzzes and Veronica's number flashes on the screen.

"Hey," he answers.

"Hey."

Logan leans forward. "How's it going?"

"As well as can be expected."

"What does that mean?"

"It means he's processing."

 _Processing, processing. Is that good or bad?_ "Are we on for tomorrow?"

"Where are you?" She asks at the same time.

"Eva and I are still in L.A. What about tomorrow?" When she doesn't answer Logan checks the display to see if the call is still connected. "Veronica?"

"Gai's still thinking about things."

"I hate sitting here in limbo."

"You'll live," she snaps.

The bedroom door is still shut and there's no sounds of Eva stirring. Logan runs his fingers through his hair and walks out onto the patio, his voice low. "Why don't I come today? Maybe it'll help if he can talk to me. Ask questions."

"No. With everything that happened yesterday Gai needs some time."

"Everything? What else happened yesterday?"

She pauses, a long-remembered sign of her choosing to withhold information. "Nothing."

"Then what did you mean—"

"I meant nothing that concerns you." Her tone is firm and heated.

Logan removes the phone from his ear and presses it to his forehead. Somehow they've fallen back into habits of old, with her deciding which parts of her life to share and which to hold back. And again he's afraid of pushing her, only to end up pushing her away. "Can we start over?"

"Yeah," she whispers, contrite. "Sorry for snapping at you. Anyway, it would be pointless to come right now. Gai's at school, then he's going to Santa Barbara and won't be back until the morning."

"Santa Barbara?"

"His friend's grandmother's birthday party."

"Oh."

"I'll keep you posted."

"Okay." The quiet drags between them, awkward with all the questions she won't answer and the demands he can't make. "Veronica? Whatever else is going on, I'm here if you want to talk."

"Thanks," she answers in such a dismissive tone he knows not to bring it up again. "Speaking of talking, have you called Dick?"

Logan sinks onto the padded lounge chair. "No. I figured there were enough stops on this reunion tour."

"You should call him. I stopped in Neptune on the way home Tuesday and explained the whole Gory thing to him so he'd get why you left."

 _What the hell is up with this Mutt and Jeff friendship?_ "Are you sure he wants to talk to me?"

"Only one way to find out. You can reach him at his business, ProBros. What about Trina? Did you call her?"

Logan laughs feels as brittle as it sounds. "Worse, we went to see her. She offered to pimp me out to Sophia Bush in front of Eva, so that was fun."

"Sounds like Trina. Did she explain why she was looking for you after all this time?"

"Yeah. She's got her own production company, now. They were working on a biopic of dad but she, um," he scratches the back of his head, "she stopped it. Found out some things that made her realize I was telling her the truth about Dad hurting me and killing Lilly. She still wants to move forward with the movie but only if I agree to be a part of it."

"At which point you told her to fuck off, or something to that effect."

"No, that was pretty much it." The lounge pad has a loose string and Logan wraps it around his finger. A white line forms under the string as his finger turns red-a study in contrast to how his back used to look after one of his sessions with his dad's belt. "Eva thinks I should give her another chance."

"Maybe you should. Trina was never evil just," she pauses, "misguided. You never saw the world through Hollywood goggles like she did."

He lets the string go. "Careful, Mars. That almost sounds like a compliment."

"That's Special Agent Mars-Zare to you, and don't take it to heart. You can still be a jackass."

Thinking back on his behavior in the limo the other morning, Logan shakes his head. "I think you and Eva would have a lot to talk about there. Remind me not to leave the two of you alone."

"Oh. I hadn't thought… Does that mean she's coming with you tomorrow? I mean, if Gai decides to go through with meeting you."

The idea of introducing Eva and Veronica is… whatever it is, his armpits suddenly feel damp. "I was joking. Should she?"

"Yeah, of course, if you want. No. I don't know."

With a small tug on the string he pulls it loose from the chair and twirls it between his fingers. As scary as it is to think of the two women in the same room together, Logan likes the idea of having Eva by his side. "It's your call. Let me know."

"Sure, and-" the deep trill of a dog's bark fills the background. Veronica's voice is muffled before she comes back on. "I have to go, someone's at the door. Hopefully I'll see you tomorrow."

"Five o'clock?"

"Yep. And Logan?"

"Yeah?"

"I think you should call Dick," she says before hanging up.

* * *

_8:45 a.m._

**Veronica**

Leo stands at the door, one hand resting on the frame in what she imagines he thinks is a sexy, languid pose. His other arm supports a box resting on his hip. "Hey, Veronica. Gai at school?"

"Yep." She scans the box, relieved to finally have the documents of the investigation into Sam's death within reach. Politeness forces her to step back and wave Leo in when all she wants is to grab the box and slam the door in his face so she can get to work. "Do you want some coffee?"

"No, thanks," Leo says and perches on the edge of the chair she indicates. The box is placed at his feet, freeing his hands to toy with the wedding ring on his left hand. Veronica settles into the closest end of the couch, as near to the answers she's been seeking as she can get.

"Veronica." He leans toward her, "I think this is a bad idea."

The thing is, she does too. The object in front of her is a Bermuda triangle contained by a banker's box. Yet, like those poor lost sailors before her, she's helpless against its pull.

Leo's eyes fall to the floor, his voice pleading. "Sam was my friend. Harry, me, the other cops- we gave the investigation everything we had. There's nothing you don't already know and the file," his stare rises to meet hers and he swallows, "it's not pretty."

 _Autopsy report. Pictures of Sam. Sam dead samdeadsamdead._ "I've got a little experience looking through homicide files. I know what to expect."

"Yeah, I guess you do. But I don't think you're going to find what you're looking for."

"Leo, are you telling me you're one-hundred percent satisfied Jennifer Weston killed Sam and there was no one else involved?"

"Yes." His gaze meets hers head-on but she can sense a flicker of uncertainty there. The lie is for her sake, for Gai's, and, she thinks, a bit for Sam's. Leo's eyes are the first to fall, leaving her with a hollow victory. "Veronica, would Sam want you fixating like this?"

With effort she keeps her temper in check enough not to slap Leo, yet venom still drips from her tongue. "Don't you fucking _dare_ throw Sam at me like that. He knew what I was about. If he could he'd tell you to stop dragging your feet and help me."

Surprisingly, Leo chuckles and shakes his head, "Yeah, he would. He once said the world would be a better place if we all just figured out you were in charge."

Eight months after his death and Sam can still surprise her. Her anger fades and leaves behind a sardonic humor. "What I remember is him saying I was a pain in the ass and that I should let someone else take the lead once in a while."

"Did you listen to him?"

"Meh," she waves a hand in the air.

Leo grins and rolls his eyes. "That's what I thought." Sobriety returns to his face. "If you won't drop this whole thing, will you at least let me stay while you look? There's, um, pictures."

"I figured." She nudges the box at his feet with her toe.

He shakes his head and pulls something from his coat pocket. "No, everything with the case is on this flash drive. The box has the stuff from Sam's desk. They released it last month, when the case was closed, and you never picked it up."

Veronica stands up, once again furious at Leo. She didn't pick it up because she didn't want one damn reminder of the job that killed him. It's only because he's still holding the flash drive that she keeps herself in check. "Thanks for the offer but I want to do this on my own. I'll call you if I need anything."

"Okay." Leo also stands and places the little item in her hand. "I'll check in with you soon and call me if you need anything."

"Sure. Thanks, Leo. And tell Allie I said hello."

"She wants you and Gai to come over. Said she'll make the salmon ravioli you like."

Allie and Leo were 'couple friends'. Veronica's already tried those dinners and loathes how they end up feeling like a car chugging along on two wheels and one rim. No thanks. "Soon, maybe. I just got back and it'll take a bit to settle in."

"Okay. Let us know, whenever."

When he leaves she hoists the box and puts it in Sam's side of the closet with the ones from her dad's. Right now she has a case file to look through.

* * *

_8:45 a.m._

**Logan**

Logan can't shake an unsettled feeling after his talk with Veronica. Her snappish attitude and vague remark about something else that happened rankles and he's sure it has to do with Gai.

His fingers wander over to the phone's search app to type in _Pro Bros, Neptune._ There's a brief description of the company – a DIYers dream. Chefs, electricians, carpenters, tailors, mechanics, etc., all a Skype call or FaceTime away from giving personal assistance to whoever's willing to pay four dollars a minute. The address of the corporate office in downtown Neptune is on the website as well as a phone number.

 _We're getting through._ Veronica's words from last week didn't sit well at the time. He'd thought then of contacting Wallace or someone else to check up on her but, given their current situation, that's a bad idea. Going behind her back could risk their renewed… he's not even sure what to call it. Friendship? He's charged with the need for forward motion, for answers.

Answers Dick might have. It's not like thoughts of his old friend haven't been lurking in Logan's mind since his liberated ass hit the pavement outside the FBI building. Thirteen years have distilled his anger toward Dick for forwarding that video of Veronica and Piz, even more so since she's obviously forgiven the idiot.

His finger hovers over the _ProBros_ phone number before he changes his mind. Despite Logan leaving without so much as a goodbye, Dick became a friend to the burgeoning family Logan unwittingly left behind.

He owes Dick an apology and a dozen years of thank yous, not an out of the blue phone call to ask about Veronica.

The patio door slides on its track behind him. He turns to find a sleep-tousled Eva squinting at the sunshine.

"Now I find you. Buenos días." She's wearing the ugly orange t-shirt; all the stores they were in yesterday and she didn't buy one new nightgown. Just before she wraps her arms around his waist and buries her face in his neck Logan notes how well suited the color is for her.

"Morning. There's coffee, should still be hot."

"Un momento. What are you doing out here?"

He wraps his arms around her back and pulls in the warm scent of sleep from her hair. "Thinking."

"¿Y?"

"How do you feel about going to Neptune?"

* * *

_11:30 a.m._

**Veronica**

Her desk is neat, orderly. The yellow legal pad is filled with notes and a white sheet of printer paper depicts a rough sketch of the alley layout between Lin's Market and where Sam died. There aren't even any crumpled tissues in the waste can to give evidence this is anything other than a routine case.

It's a preliminary review so Veronica won't allow that no literal smoking gun has popped out discourage her. The evidence has already been gone over by several seasoned veterans at least as smart as she is. Given what she already knew to start with, no way did Veronica think the investigation would be easy.

She agrees on most points. Jennifer Weston held up Lin's Market at 10:26 am on September 25th using a 9mm. A dark hoody obscured her hair and face but her jeans and tennis shoes in the police photos match those in the security video. As does the woman's long-legged build. It's what happened during and after the robbery Veronica has problems with.

First, the woman who held up Lin's market was no hardened criminal. Though the hood hid her face from the camera, she stammered and her hand shook as she pointed the gun around the store.

Second, when they arrested Jennifer Weston she had on only a shirt, jeans and tennis shoes; she'd used the hoody to staunch Sam's gunshot wound and there were no gloves in her pockets. They had the bad luck of it being a day before garbage pickup when Sam was shot so the dumpsters in the long alley were full. Each one was emptied and gone through, their contents catalogued and photographed but no gloves or gun were found. The conclusion was Weston found a hiding place the police did not. _Or someone helped her._

Third, the department had two different forensic analysts review the evidence. Each report included pictures of the gunshot entrance and exit wounds, measurements of the abrasion collar, and analysis of the tattooing pattern. Analyst One concluded the shooter was approximately six feet three inches tall and stood five feet away. Analyst Two that the shooter was five foot seven, Jennifer Weston's height, and stood six feet away.

Fourth is the report written by Harold Slatnick, Sam's partner. When he and Sam pulled up to Lin's Market they both saw a young girl run down the alleyway. Harry described her as Caucasian with long blond hair pulled back into a pony tail. She was dressed in dark clothing and white running shoes. Sam took off after her on foot.

While Harry was in the store making sure everyone was unharmed he heard a distant gunshot. A cruiser pulled up in front of the market just as he went outside; Harry and the patrolmen conferred then one joined Harry to search the alley south of the store and the other went north. Five blocks and four minutes after he heard the shot Harry and the cop found Sam; Jennifer Weston was hovering over him and attempting first aid. Harry recognized the ponytail and white shoes though she now wore a long-sleeve t-shirt. Her arms were slick with blood up to the elbow, she had a swipe of it on her brow, and was hysterical. She sobbed, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," repeatedly and fought the cop who tried to pull her away from Sam.

Harry instructed the cop to arrest Weston while he called for an ambulance and applied pressure to the wound. He felt, and the autopsy later confirmed, Sam was already dead.

Jennifer Weston never said another word. Not to a cop, her lawyer, her mother, nor the arraignment judge. Not even to the psychiatrist they brought in. It's not in the file but Veronica knows the SDPD even placed a cooperative inmate in Weston's jail cell for two weeks. Weston never talked. Not until a month ago when she requested to see her lawyer and informed him she was changing her plea to guilty.

_So this woman shot Sam but was so wrought with guilt she tried to help him instead of running. She was frantic over what had happened and had to be physically pulled away so they could arrest her. Yet she took the time to remove her gloves and stash the gun so well no one else could find it? Nuh uh. No._

Lastly, Weston spent seven months sticking by a not guilty plea while pro-bono attorneys worked on her defense with no help from her. According to the jail records during that time the only visitor she agreed to see was her mother. She got no mail other than reporter requests for interviews. Nothing to explain what made her change her plea.

Veronica studies the mug shot of Weston. The cuffs of her white tee and the cuticles of her fingers are stained red. Her eyes are empty of emotion, completely turned inward. It's an expression Veronica's seen many times in her job, though it's usually worn by victims - those who've experienced something so horrific they shut down to protect themselves.

There's hours more work ahead of her. Days. It all needs to be gone through: eyewitness accounts from everyone in the market at the time of the robbery, reports gathered from when cops canvassed the neighborhood for witnesses, interviews with Weston's mom, dad, sister and anyone else who knew her. The SDPD background check on Weston. She's got her own background check to complete, one she held off on as a promise to Leo not to hinder the investigation. Add in the lawyers' file Veronica is determined to get her hands on, and she can work toward proving her theory.

A theory that Jennifer Weston, a college freshman from a middle class upbringing, robbed that store under duress. That someone was waiting in the alley for her, shot Sam, and took off with the gun. Someone Weston either loves or fears so much she's willing to sacrifice her own life to protect them.

* * *

_12 p.m._

**Logan**

En route to Neptune their limo crosses the Coronado Bridge. He's always heard when you return to places from your past they're smaller than you remember. Not in this reality; the bridge is monstrous. The idea that he stood drunk on the railing makes his stomach flip.

What the _hell_ had he been thinking?

Traffic's heavy so he has plenty of time to point out to Eva where he was the night the PCHers jumped him and Thumper killed Felix Toombs. She's quiet as he recounts that night, his fear and confusion upon waking with that damn knife in his hand, and then getting in his truck and turning on the radio.

In the quiet that follows they pass the midpoint, where a woman once parked a red convertible catawampus and decided to take a swim. It's unmarked, equidistant between two suicide hotline signs. Bad jokes about barn doors and horses float through Logan's mind and go unsaid, along with any mention of his mother. That Eva grabs his hand tells him she knows anyway, that she remembers this particular tale he once recounted in grisly detail.

Once in Neptune, at Eva's request, Logan directs Jameel to the neighborhood where he grew up. The new owners changed the Kane residence so much it's unrecognizable. Last he heard Celeste and Jake had separated and moved, Duncan was gone, and Lilly just a memory. They drive on without getting out of the car.

The gates outside his own house are the only thing left of the hellhole where he spent his teen years; a new monstrosity sits in its place.

Eva gets out with him and looks through the fence at the sprawling property with its green grass and thirsty shrubbery, California water crisis be damned. "This is where you live?" she asks, awe in her voice.

"Behold, the Echolls zoo. We got to sit behind the bars while the populace walked by and gawked. Noon and four were feeding times, when my dad would go down to eat up adulation and sign autographs."

"Which is your room?"

"What?" He looks at her in surprise. Logan had told Eva much about his life here so it was hard to remember what he left out or why. "The PHCers burned the place to the ground my senior year of high school. This house is new."

"PCHers? These are the men who think you kill their friend?"

"Yeah, it was pretty ugly around here after Felix died. Very Jets versus Sharks."

Eva moves down the fence to get a better view of the property. "¿Quien es quien?

"You ever seen West Side Story?"

She rolls her eyes at him. "Menso, todo el mundo has seen West Side Story. What I mean is if there is Jets contra Sharks, los PCHers son...… "

"Sharks, I guess."

"¿Por qué?"

"I don't know, because they were Mexican and we were white? Because we were assholes who thought we owned the town?"

Maybe their conversation about how he didn't used to be a decent person is finally getting through to her. It's visible, the way she almost rails into him, then changes her mind and pulls it back. Her voice is casual, yet it's obvious she's forcing it to stay that way. "So you are the Jets."

"If we're sticking with my offhand analogy, sure."

"Hmmph, that is too bad."

She gives him a crooked smile and Logan feels, in some small measure, forgiven for his behavior so many years ago. "Why is that?"

"My heart, it always belongs to Bernardo."

"Too bad you ended up with Riff then. Besides, in this reality Bernardo is a shrimp," Logan snipes, holding a hand at mid-chest. He scoops up a handful of gravel and lobs a piece across the driveway.

Eva shakes her head and grabs one of his rocks to do the same. "No, not Riff. You are Tony. But I do not want to be Maria. My brothers teach me to fight like a man. How will I become a, what is your gang?"

Her rock lands several feet past his. "'09ers," he grunts as he flicks his wrist to make his piece hop beyond hers. "Because of the 90909 zip code. If you lived in this neighborhood it was automatic membership."

"And where do the PCHers live? Los Mexicanos?" She bests him again, this time skipping her little stone all the way to the steps at the top where the driveway curves. The hard tone and tense line to her jaw says she already knows the answer to her own question.

"Across town. Let's get out of here." Logan drops the remaining gravel back where he got it from and wraps his arm around her waist to tow her toward the car. She opens her mouth and closes it again, then follows him silently.

_12:40 pm_

There's nowhere downtown with parking large enough for a limo. Jameel drops them a block away from the main drag and they mosey back, toward the address Logan found for ProBros.

It's problematic orienting himself; every storefront looks different. Green awnings lend a new uniformity over what are now high-end boutiques and art galleries, and the taquerias and pizza joints are replaced with chic restaurants. The former fabric store is a classy nightclub and the loan place is now a store for pet clothing and accessories. Logan looks up and sees the Mars Investigations sign is still in place, incongruous with the other businesses.

_One stop shopping. Buy a cocktail dress, meet the ladies for lunch, and hire a PI to secure your divorce settlement all in the same day._

With fingers crossed he won't run into Keith Mars, Logan searches every face, expecting to see someone he knows. While a few people look familiar there's no one he flat out recognizes. The farther down the street he gets the more he's able to relax.

It's a prosperous crowd, from the look of things. Almost every car on the block is in the high-end range and the pedestrians' designer clothes rival those they'd seen on Rodeo Drive. The woman in front of them is willowy and graceful on spike heels, the red bottoms of which flash with every step.

Noting the occasional, covert look from passersby, Logan mentally compares Eva and himself to those around them. With their new clothes, jewelry, and salon facials and haircuts they should blend in, and he does. Eva, however, stands out here in Neptune where there's little diversity among the upper crust. She also lacks the dainty bearing of the woman in front of them, or what every other '09er girl starved herself to maintain. With her height, obvious strength, and square-shouldered way of carrying herself, she's a natural-born queen among latent-crowned WASP princesses.

Eva has long become inured to the looks she draws from her countrymen, understandable since she's been taller than most of them since she was fourteen. Now, away from the familiarity of home and the anything-goes attitude of L.A., she's more self-conscious. "¿Por qué me miran?" _(Why is everyone staring at me?)_

Logan tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow. "To borrow from a little known gem called, 'Tuff Turf', 'the women are all wondering where they've seen you before and the guys are wondering why the hell they haven't'."

She snorts and rests her head on his shoulder. "You and the movies."

"Should I give you a well-worn speech on art imitating life and vice versa?"

The woman ahead of them thumbs her phone as she walks and Logan marvels she can do both simultaneously in the heels she's wearing. It'd be like texting on stilts.

The closer they get to ProBros' address the more he wonders if dropping in on Dick is a good idea. His stomach gets tighter and tighter and his breath is harder to catch.

"Eva—"

The front door of the business ahead of them opens and a blond man in a grey suit hits the sidewalk, phone in hand. "Babe, I said I'd meet you there."

Logan stops walking. Even if it takes his mind a moment to apply thirteen years to the face, that voice is unmistakable. Eva whispers, "Malachy?"

The texting woman stops and kisses the blond man on the cheek. "My meeting let out early and I missed you-sue me."

"Dick?" Logan chokes out.

When Dick's eyes meet his Logan can see him go through the same process of recognition. Logan grins and reaches out a hand as they step toward each other.

Dick's hand also goes out, high and blurry. Pain bursts through Logan's cheekbone and he finds himself flat on his ass on the sidewalk. "Whathefuckdude?"

Logan's still trying to figure out how he got on the ground when the willowy woman squats down next to him, inordinately cheerful. "Hi, you must be Logan."

Logan tests the tenderness of his cheekbone. "Good guess."

Behind the woman, Dick's backed up to glare menacingly at him while Eva, having grown up in a family with four brothers, watches. She lifts a shoulder and rolls her eyes when Logan looks at her, as if to say, "What did you expect, idiot?"

"Nice to finally meet you, Logan. I'm Charlotte Casablancas. Dick's wife." She holds a hand out and helps to pull him up.

_Dick's WHAT?_

"Wow. Um, nice to meet you, too." He turns to his old friend and tries, "Dick—"

Dick glares at Logan. "What did you expect, a welcome home banner? You fucking _bailed_."

_You got punched, by Dick. Dick's married. Maybe Petturi did shoot you and this is all part of a coma dream._

Logan moves forward, careful to stay more than an arm's distance away. "There was a good reason."

"Yeah, Ronnie told me about that shithead Gory. Just 'cause I get it doesn't make it okay."

"No, it doesn't."

They stare at each other and, despite Dick's obvious fury, Logan again experiences the feeling he had with Veronica on the ship. He'd even gotten a twinge of it with Trina. Connection. History. Home. And _fuck_ , how he's missed it.

Charlotte looks between them and shakes her head. "Hey, guys? Do you want to go somewhere to talk?"

Neither of them answer and Logan doesn't break his staring contest with Dick; some instinct says to back down now will cost him. Eva steps over to Charlotte and the two of them move down the street, ostensibly to leave him and Dick alone.

"Dick-"

"You should've told me that fucker put a target on you. I woulda had your back!"

"Yeah, you would've. That's why it was better you didn't know."

Dick rolls his head in disgust and storms off, toward the women. Logan has to jog to catch up and winces when he sees the other man backhanding his eye. "Dick, hold up! You're right. I shouldn't have left without telling you why."

Dick stops next to Charlotte and glares at Logan. "Or asking me to go with you, right?"

"What? No, why would I do that?"

The rancid smile that passes over Dick's face is foreign, the look of a man far more wizened than the one he last knew. "Oh, lemme think. 'Cause I would've asked you? But thanks for letting me know you didn't give a shit."

"No, dude. Gory wanted to _kill_ me. How could I drag you into that?"

"Because that's what we _did!_ I was your second, remember?"

Late nights wherein they stayed up late at the Grand watching old movies with duels. Drunken promises and oaths of allegiance. Logan runs his hands through his hair and steps back, ignoring the lookieloos Dick's yelling has gathered. "I wasn't thinking of it like that. I couldn't ask you to leave school and your dad and-"

"My dad?" Dick snorts and the florid color of his cheeks deepens. "School sucked and my dad met banging hot wife number four that summer and bailed on me, too."

_Awesome. You dumped him just like his parents did._

"I'm sorry. Dammit, I'm sorry, okay? I fucked up."

"You're sorry."

"Yeah."

"Well, that's great." After a sour laugh Dick leans down to whisper something in Charlotte's ear. When she nods sympathetically he lopes his way up the street away from the lot of them, leaving Logan with no choice but to follow.

"Dick—"

"No really, dude. I heard you. You're sorry. That's awesome. Thanks."

For the grace of a red light and a surge of traffic Dick has to stop walking. Logan uses the opportunity to stop the chase and plant himself in front of his old friend. "I get that you're pissed, okay? But it's not like I've been on some surf trip and forgot to invite you."

"Yeah, you were. Before you went into hiding like a little bitch."

Tingles of self-righteousness cross Logan's palms and curl his fingers. "I was on the run, Dick! If I stuck around and got myself killed would that have been better?"

The light turns green. When Dick tries to step around him Logan pushes on his chest; the guy wants a fight he's damn well going to get one. "Really, were you and Veronica going to throw roses on my grave and sing a round of 'Candle in the Wind'? No! Veronica would have figured it out and gone after Gory. And you, what? You were already a mess about Beaver and drinking like they just repealed Prohibition. My bloody corpse would've been the last excuse you needed to totally go off the deep end. Is that why you're so pissed, huh? Because you missed out on using me to drink yourself to death?"

"So you leaving was some kind of favor? Fuck you. Ronnie showed me those pictures. I got to be here, dealing with her and your kid and the frat kicking me out and almost flunking out of school while my _best friend_ partied it up without me."

_What pictures? The frat kicked him out? Flunking- that one actually makes sense._

Dick shakes his head, his eyes filling with tears he blinks away. His gaze moves toward Eva and Charlotte watching them from a hundred feet away. "You never called me. You didn't even send me an email or a text to tell me what was up."

"I couldn't, man. A guy warned me about Gory and said they'd be watching, tracking everything. I'm sorry. What could I do? What _can_ I do?"

When Dick finally looks at him, hurt and disappointment have drawn his mouth down and created haggard lines in his cheeks. "Nothing. I—You know what? It really doesn't matter anymore."

The light behind them has turned red and then green again. This time Logan doesn't stop Dick when he crosses the street and walks away. Those still watching avert his glare and move on about their day. Except one guy who stands there with a leash and blue bag full of dog mess clutched in his hands, his mouth hanging open.

_Asshole._

_Who does that apply to?_

_Me. Totally me._

"Malachy?" Eva sidles up beside him and loops her fingers with his, a small tether in the middle of an emotional tornado.

Charlotte _(Dick's wife – gotta get used to that)_ comes with her and grants him a sympathetic smile. "Give him a little time, Logan. He never stays mad long."

The easy familiarity with which she addresses him is a surprise, and a comfort. Logan gives her a wry smile. "Are you sure? I don't think I've ever seen him _that_ pissed."

"It doesn't happen often," she bites the corner of her lip and frowns. "He's been waiting to hear from you for a couple of days, since Ronnie came to see him. It's had him on edge."

_Yep, that seals it. I'm an asshole._

"Got any advice on what I should do?"

"Yes," Charlotte shakes her head. "But giving it to you would divide my loyalties. How about you let me talk to him?"

For the first time he really takes in Charlotte Casablancas. Her eyes are lit like amber in sunlight and she's beautiful-almost too beautiful-but even more she looks kind. Nice. Very different from the buxom hotties Dick usually went for. If he'd given it any thought he'd have guessed the newest Mrs. Casablancas would be another big-toed, fake-tanned party girl. One with looks that turned hard before she was thirty. This woman before him with the kind face and gentle voice is a genuinely nice surprise.

_Good for you, Dick._

"That, um, that would be great. Thanks."

"Sure." She wobbles on her tall shoes and waits, then lifts her eyebrows in question. "Wanna tell me how he can get in touch with you?"

"Huh?" Logan's brain is on a lag and it takes a moment to remember he's essentially dropped into Dick and Charlotte's life like a drone. "I can put our number in your phone, if that works."

While he enters their cell number, Eva and Charlotte say their goodbyes. Logan almost doesn't want to let this woman go. If he holds her hostage her husband will have to come around to find her, right? On the small hope she can get Dick to relent Logan makes a decision he regrets immediately afterward.

"For tonight we'll be at Neptune Grand if, you know, Dick wants to come by. Or something. The Grand is still here, right?"

Charlotte's phone buzzes while still in Logan hands. He hands it back to her but not before he sees the text from Dick. "S _orry, couldn't deal. Need you. Call me?"_

"The Grand? Right where you left it," she pointedly says, then smiles in apology. "I'll tell him."

* * *

_6:00pm_

**Veronica**

Eight hours straight staring at the computer hasn't done Veronica's eyes any favors. Burn set in long ago and her back and hips beg her for more exercise than just walking back and forth from the bathroom. Her stomach rumblings are now a fierce growl and she resigns herself that food and a small break are needed before she gets back at it.

The three legal pads she's now filled with notes need to be translated into comprehensive files and gone over again. At least now she's got a clearer picture of Jennifer Weston: The girl grew up in Los Angeles with one younger sister, both raised by a single mom, and dad barely in the picture since they were little. She had only one job, at a Gap outlet store for over two years. Invisible in high school. A silent member of the science club, decent performer in track and field, not even one close friend found during the background check.

Teachers, co-workers, and each family member all describe her as sweet and exceedingly quiet. No one recalled her ever having a friend or going on a date, much less having a boyfriend. Accepted into UCSD on partial scholarship, remaining tuition paid from a college account her mother established and carefully built up since Jennifer was born. Her dorm-mate couldn't give one personal tidbit about the girl she'd lived with for mere weeks.

Which all leads to a big fat nothing. The take from Lin's Market was under a thousand dollars. There's no credit card bills or overdrafts on a bank account to indicate financial strife. With a strong background in science and a major in biochemistry Weston was a few years and some hard work away from a decent living. The straight As on her high school transcript said she was up to it.

 _Why? Why did you rob that store? Where did you get the gun? What am I_ missing?

Keller's bark comes a second before an insistent knock at the front door. "Just a minute," Veronica yells while shutting down the computer and locking the notepads and flash drive in the bottom desk drawer.

By the time she makes it out to the living room Keller's tail is wagging like a windshield wiper and she's added to the scratch marks already on the floor by the door. Mac's voice is on the other side, cooing. "Come on, girl. Your can do it. Dig me a tunnel."

"I'm billing you when I have to refinish that damn floor," Veronica says in way of greeting when she opens the door.

"Consider it payback for holding out on me." Mac dumps two bottles of flavored vodka in her hands as she drops to the floor to maul Keller. "How's my girl? How's my girl?" she tuts in an annoying baby voice.

"Holding out?"

"My fault," Charlotte says from the doorway. She steps around Mac and Keller's love fest toward the kitchen, her arms laden down with takeout. "I called Mac to vent about Dick and found out she was in the dark about what was going on."

 _Shit._ "Don't make a big deal of it, Mac. I was going to call you this weekend."

"Mwaah!" Mac lays a kiss on Keller's snout and scrambles to a standing position to glare at Veronica. "Oh, it's a big deal and we're going to get into it. Where's Gai?"

"Overnighter with Mike."

"Good. Then he won't hear me ask how in the HELL you can run into Logan Echolls, the father of your child –"

"Mac."

Mac moves closer and points a finger in her face. "The love of your life, pre-Sam."

"Oh my god."

"And let's not forget – let me see if I remember this right. 'The guy whose tongue should be bronzed and placed in the Hall of Sex Fame'."

Chagrin heats Veronica's cheeks and she drops her eyes from Mac's. "Bitch. Isn't there some rule about letting your friends forget their late-night, pregnancy-hormone-induced confessions?"

"Yeah," Charlotte laughs from the kitchen. "The rule is _never_?"

"There's also rules about calling your best friends when monumental things go down. And I'm not talking bronzed tongue monumental." Mac snaps her fingers so Veronica looks back up at her. "How could you not call me the minute you got home? Hell, how could you not call me from the ship?"

"I've been busy," Veronica mumbles. She looks down from Mac's accusing glare to study Keller, who's squeezed herself in between them. The dog has her face tilted as she whines; like all canines she's sensitive to voice tone. With a hand on Keller's head to give and take reassurance Veronica faces Mac again. "It hasn't been the easiest thing to deal with."

"Which is why you should have called me."

Bless a friend who knows when to stop yelling and just pull you into a hug you'd never ask for. Inside Mac's embrace the onslaught of tears Veronica's held back all day rise to the surface. She's only vaguely aware when Charlotte flanks them and she's led to the couch. Keller steps on her feet to lay her upper body across Veronica and Mac's laps with a low whimper in her throat.

"Shhh," Mac murmurs. "You don't have to do everything on your own, you know."

Charlotte hands her a handful of tissues from the box on the table. Once the tears slow and Veronica's managed the majority of the cleanup she gives an embarrassed laugh. "Yeah, I do. You guys are great but at the end of the day, it's just me, you know? You go home and I've got this empty bed and all these decisions to make."

Charlotte brushes Veronica's hair behind her ear and wraps her arm over her back, crisscrossing it with Mac's. "What decisions?"

Months of loneliness and frustration are backed up, infused with anger targeted toward Jennifer Weston. The investigation beckons from her office. "All of them. Everything from whether to buy granola or Grape Nuts to how much to tell Gai about Logan. It's all on me. And _every_ decision I make affects Gai in some way. I'm so afraid I'm going to screw him up." _That he'll end up like me._

"Veronica, you're the best mom in the world." Mac reassures her. "Gai's such a good kid. You guys are having a tough time right now but he's going to be okay."

"Is he? What if everything great about him is because of Sam? I mean, the first few years are easy. Just make sure they don't drink bleach or get hit by a car."

Char lightly knocks her hand up the back of Veronica's head. "Stupid talk. You know what Sam told me once? He made me promise not to tell but I will anyway."

Veronica wipes at the moisture that won't stop seeping from her eyes. "What? When?"

"During your thirtieth birthday party, at that lame bounce house place you insisted on. You and Gai were playing chase, hitting each other with those foam bats and having a great time. Sam was watching you and he just looked, god, smitten." Char smiles at Veronica and uses a fresh tissue to wipe some remaining tears from her chin. "He said he couldn't believe the kickassiest—"

"Kickassiest?" Veronica chokes on the word, caught between a sob and a laugh. _God Sam, I MISS you._

"Yes. He couldn't believe the kickassiest woman in the world was also such a phenomenal mother. That it was half the reason he fell in love with you."

Veronica closes her eyes against the yawping sensation in her gut. _These are the kinds of secrets you kept, Sam? Frank Abagnale Jr. you were not._

"And I hate to break this to you but I don't think Gai's going to be at all affected by what cereal you buy." Mac taps her head against Veronica's in a friendly way. "You might be overestimating how important breakfast foods are to that kid."

"Well, that's good," Veronica says as she tamps down the need to squirm away. The three-female press of her friends and dog has turned from comforting to claustrophobic. "Because I ate the granola for lunch today. Didn't you bring food?"

"Not so fast, chickadee." Charlotte takes Veronica's face in her hands so she can't look away. "We're here. Call us for anything. You can even bring us to those awful family dinners you're always complaining about. I love it anytime we can put Endora and Dick in the same room."

The evil grin looks so out of place on Char's angelic features it reaps a snort from Veronica. "Deal. Can I have my face back now? I'd really like to shove some food in it. What'd you bring me to eat?"

"Golubtsi, vegan borscht, beet salad, and vodka," Mac answers.

"Borscht? Golusi?"

Mac bequeaths a hug to Keller before she pushes her to the floor and stands up. She moves to the kitchen and unpacks the food while the other two follow to get out dishes and utensils. "Golubtsi. But don't think I've forgotten why we're here. This thing with Logan." She lifts her eyebrows. "How's Gai taking it?"

"Not great." The real reason Veronica didn't call Mac before tonight sits between them, filed under 'subjects that shall not be named'. "Do you think I shouldn't have told him? Or at least waited until he was older?"

"No," Mac snaps back quickly.

"I mean he's still grieving for Sam –"

"No."

After a long silence during which many past arguments over this very subject replays in her head, Veronica nods. "Okay."

The cabinet where the wine and cocktail glasses are stored is above the sink. Mac steps around a quiet, watchful Charlotte to pull down three shot glasses and sets them on the table. "Well, I always liked Logan. Liked him once I got to know him," she amends when Veronica scoffs. "And I hope everything turns out okay but tonight is about celebrating."

"Celebrating? Celebrating what?"

"Well," Mac says as she pours out three measures of the orange vodka and hands them out. When she and Char raise them in a toast Veronica follows, though she has no intention of drinking the alcohol. "Logan is alive and healthy while that sonofabitch Gorya Sorokin is dead."

It was barely a week ago that Veronica indulged in whiskey-soaked night that tilted her world on its axis. It should be another decade before she breaks her one-and-done, wine or beer only rule. Looking at what she now realizes is an _in-your-face-Gory_ Russian wake she figures rules only exist to be broken and takes the shot.

_7:00 p.m_

The world has fallen to a halt. The acrid taste of orange coats her tongue and Veronica sits on the floor, alternately sipping water and taking the occasional shot as she listens to her friends' disjointed chatter. Char and Mac are curled into opposite ends of the couch talking about Ricky, the guy Veronica had no idea Mac was dating, much less dumped.

"Wait, Ricky. Why didn't I know about Ricky?"

"Because we started and finished in the past two weeks. Veronica, do you remember Max from freshman year?"

"Max?" Charlotte asks. "Mac and Max? That was already doomed."

"Says the better half of Dick and Harlotte," Mac shoots back, reminding them all of the wedding invitations Char's older sister doctored.

Veronica chuckles. "I remember Max. Your bad-boy phase that oddly coincided with your nerd-boy phase."

"Don't knock a nerd. Nobody's better at role play. Anyway," Mac shouts over screams and laughter of the other two. "It was great, right? All sex and goofing off and never any talk about 'where is this going'. Then one day we were like, hey, it's been fun. See you around. That's what I want _._ "

"And Ricky wanted a girlfriend?" When Mac nods Veronica takes another sip of her water and grins, "They say once you go Mac you can't go back."

"Har har." Mac grimaces and pours herself another shot, then reaches across the table to fill Veronica's empty glass. "No, but I just got out of a _six year_ relationship. I want to date, you know?"

Char's brow furrows and she sips at the water she adopted after only one shot of the alcohol. "But you and Ricky _were_ dating."

Mac looks between the two of them and rolls her eyes. "Look who I'm talking to. Meets her husband before she can legally drink," she points to Char. "And the serial monogamist." This time the finger of accusation goes to Veronica.

"I dated!" Veronica protests, offended for a reason her brain is too slow to discern. "A lot. Before, you know, I got knocked up."

"Those weren't dates. They were boyfriend auditions."

Char shifts and pulls her feet up under her, curiosity filling her face. "What's the difference?"

"The difference is," Mac sighs and leans back to study the ceiling in thought. "Dating doesn't have to have an end game. I mean, take Veronica –"

"Hey, why am I the one getting deconstructed here?"

"Because I never dated before Dick?" Char points out.

Veronica grumbles, "Your loss," and ducks the throw pillow Charlotte chucks at her. She doesn't appreciate that Mac would trot out her personal history to make some point, nor that Char's more than willing to let her be the sacrificial lamb.

"Take Veronica," Mac continues. "Duncan, boyfriend. Troy and Leo, failed boyfriend auditions."

"Maybe you didn't recognize it then because your head was stuck in a computer twenty-four seven but that was _dating_."

"Really." Challenge is in Mac's voice, heavier than the small slur the vodka has given her. She sets her glass down on the coffee table and slides off the couch to crawl over to where Veronica's sitting. Orange-tinged fumes coat the air between them as Mac gets herself right in Veronica's face. "Look me in the eye and tell me that if Troy hadn't been a douche, or if Logan hadn't waylaid you with that kiss at the Camelot while you were dating Leo –"

"The Camelot?" Charlotte interrupts. "You don't mean that hooker hostel in Neptune?"

Mac snorts and falls head-first into Veronica's lap. Veronica reaches a hand down to brush the black-tipped blonde locks out of her friend's eyes. When Mac curls on her side and purrs theatrically, she continues to stroke the strands toward the back of Mac's head. It feels nice under her fingers, soft. Like when Gai was little and she did the same thing to him.

Her shot glass is closer than the cup of water so it's that which Veronica raises in toast. "Here's to all the babies that, one way or another, got started at the Camelot."

The alcohol goes down smooth. Too smooth. _Slow down. Next thing you know you'll be macking on Mac._ The random thought makes her giggle.

"No!" Mac shouts from Veronica's lap and shifts so she's staring straight up at her. "I was making a point. Don't distract me. Can I have some water?" she whines.

Char's nice enough to lean across the table and hand her glass to Veronica, who lifts Mac's head and helps her drink like an invalid.

"Okay, my _point_ ," Mac pushes the water glass away and plops her head back down, "was you were heading to boyfriend town with Troy and Leo. Then you dump Leo and Logan's your boyfriend. Then you dump Logan and Duncan's your boyfriend. Then Logan. Then _Piz_ , for stupid's sake."

Mac's eyes upside down fascinate Veronica. Heavy purple shadow coats the lids, making it look from this angle like she hasn't slept in days. The mouth at the top of her head is cyclopsian. And moving.

 _Never mind. This is creepy._ A push on Macs head gives her the hint Veronica's done being her pillow pet and she sits up.

"After Logan left you dated, what, one guy in college? Then dumped him after a month because he wasn't daddy material."

"So?"

"So, like I said, you were auditioning him to play the part of boyfriend."

It occurs to Veronica that she's not only being used, Mac's accusing her of something. "You act like it's a bad thing."

"No, it's just not what I want. So, you can you guys promise me something?"

"What?" Charlotte asks, leaning forward.

"Don't ask me annoying things like 'how's it going with so-n-so'? Because there won't be a so-n-so. Or they'll be a lot of them. I'm planning on going out with several different men, having some fun before I settle on anyone again. _If_ I settle on anyone again."

Veronica considers one of her oldest friends. Gone is the quiet, reserved girl she met in high school. In her place is this fiercely independent woman who owns her own IT support business and carries herself as if she can handle anything. "Sure, we can do that."

"Absolutely," Char chimes in. When her phone vibrates on the table she checks it and taps out a message. "I have to go soon. Dick."

Veronica pulls her knees up and wraps her arms around them. "You said earlier you needed to vent about Dick. What's going on? And no sex talk – you know that's a hard limit."

Mac wrinkles her nose and mutters, "Which she constantly ignores."

"Oh, that man." Char falls back on the couch and rolls her eyes. "For days he's been so excited. All he can talk about is Logan this and Logan that, then Logan finally shows up today and Dick punches him!"

"Did they work it out?" Veronica asks with a studied casualness in her voice.

"No. Dick and I talked for a while but then he wanted to be alone. He's at the beach house."

"Where's Logan?" After asking Veronica mentally kicks herself. _He won't disappear again. You know that, right?_ "Nevermind. Forget I asked."

Mac frowns. "Char didn't you say Logan and his girlfriend went to the Grand?"

"That's what he said. That Dick could reach him there if he wanted to talk."

 _Logan. The Grand._ Veronica reaches for the vodka to pour more shots. Handing one to Mac she raises her own in toast and waits until the other two follow her lead, Charlotte using her water. "To the death of Gorya Sorokin. May he rot in hell."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: For all of you reading and following, thank you! I apologize for the long wait between updates - real life has been demanding a lot of attention lately but I promise you this story is never far from my mind. And neither are you. All your reviews, favorites, follows, and notes of encouragement have kept me energized like nothing else.
> 
> A/N: HUGE THANK YOUs, again and again, to Nevertothethird and Ghostcat3000. N23, you keep me laughing in my darkest moments and are the guiding force behind this story. You keep my vision true, my friend, which is no small feat given my tangential tendencies! GC, you've given Eva a texture and shape I never could have pulled off on my own, and I adore how you remind me that even the smallest word or phrase can pack a punch.


	16. The Boy With The Thorn In His Side

_Previously on: Logan and his girlfriend, Eva, have spent the past week in Southern California, revisiting his past and killing time until Saturday, when Logan is supposed to meet his son for the first time. During that time Logan's reconnected with Dick, and it did not go well._

_Meanwhile, Veronica's digging deeper into the death of her husband. With the help of old friend Leo she's acquired the SDPD case file and has formed a theory Sam's convicted killer, Jennifer Weston, didn't act alone. In true Veronica fashion she's doing this on her own, while also trying to help her son handle the re-emergence of his biological father, and the family history that comes with him._

* * *

_Saturday 5am_

**LOGAN**

"Malachy?" Eva's coarse morning voice, accompanied by an annoying chime, weaves itself into the edges of Logan's sleep.

Eva lifting herself from his chest and stretching her torso directly across his face brings him fully awake, and she ignores his squawk of protest. "Alo?"

His name, muffled by Eva's head, sounds otherworldly; she pushes the phone against his ear and collapses next to him. "Yeah?"

"Dude. Get your ass out of bed and be out front in ten," Dick orders, then hangs up.

"Quien?"

"It was Dick. He's coming to pick me up."

It takes Logan two tries to get the handset back on its base-his head is heavy with too much thinking and not enough sleep the night before. The bathroom's heated floor is an unaccustomed luxury as he brushes his teeth, one that's missed when he returns to the bedroom.

Eva's back to sleep already. With no idea what Dick has in mind, and not wanting wake her again by rooting through suitcases, Logan pulls on the jeans and boxers he discarded on the floor last night. Eva's ugly orange t-shirt is the first to hand, and he shrugs resignedly. The green twill button-up he wore to dinner is draped over a chair and he pulls it on for a layer of warmth.

He can't find his socks but it doesn't matter; the moccasins he bought are as comfortable as slippers.

Logan beats Dick to the front entrance of the hotel. It hasn't changed much, though the rooms have undergone a major remodel, as witnessed during his two a.m., bellboy-bribed visit to the penthouse while Eva slept. Everything from the drapes to the flooring was different. So much different he had an impossible time reconciling the room to his memories.

Or he was sick of looking backward.

A large truck makes its way up the circular drive, the blue paint iridescent under the bright lights of the canopy. The tips of two surfboards stick out of the back end, and he climbs into the cab at Dick's head-jerk toward the passenger seat.

"Hey."

When Dick doesn't answer, Logan abides the silence during the drive to Pike Beach. With sunrise still a good ten minutes away, few people are around to see when he strips down to put on the wetsuit thrown at him.

God, he remembers this—the ritual of dawn patrol. Hit the beach before anyone else so the waves were theirs alone for a few precious minutes. Logan hasn't been on a board in over two months and neither the cold water nor Dick's even colder attitude can tamp the anticipation in his veins. From the sound of it the waves are firing.

They paddle out in the same positions they used to, Dick on the right and Logan on the left. By the time the start their first rides the sun has risen enough to create a band of orange and yellow at the horizon. The black sky lightens to a deep blue as the few low clouds become backlit silhouettes.

Logan's surfed with others over the years. Eva's brother Gabriel picked up the habit when he stayed with them a few years ago; Diego's grown daughter Isadora has practically lived on a board since she was four and they often go out together. There's a local group in Antofagasta that welcome him in their midst whenever he seeks them out. None provide the synchronicity he and Dick spent years honing. Within minutes they're able to anticipate each other's moves and their old system of divvying up waves is back in place.

It's Saturday morning so within half an hour the water is crowded and they move further out and down, away from the amateurs. They're evenly matched and Logan keeps going, long after he knows Dick must be as tired as he is.

If exhaustion is the price he has to pay for leaving all those years ago, Dick's letting him off easy.

Finally, when Logan's knees are shaking and his arms can barely lift his weight anymore, Dick heads for shore. They both trudge out of the water and Dick falls to his ass on the ground, breathing heavily.

Logan sets his board down. "Your cutbacks are still sloppy," he mumbles.

"Yeah, well you still chicken out on the laybacks."

"No, I'm just not a showoff. Unlike some people."

The corner of Dick's mouth twitches up before he pulls it back into a scowl. Uncomfortable in the wetsuit now that he's out of the water, Logan pulls it down to his waist and drops next to Dick in the sand.

Dick eyes run over him. "At least you didn't let yourself go soft."

"That's what she said."

This time it's harder for Dick to hold back the grin, though he looks away so Logan only glimpses it.

"Charlotte seems nice," he tries.

"Mmm hmm."

"So. Married, huh?"

"Yup."

"I, uh," Logan chuckles and scours the water out of his hair. "I never pictured that, you know? You being married for real."

Dick picks up a shell and flicks it toward the water. "Yeah, well, you missed a lot."

"About that. Yesterday you mentioned something about the frat and your dad—"

"Forget it. Old news."

Dick is the kind of guy that has to work at staying mad so Logan shuts up, not wanting to give him any more reason. Dredging up past hurts just might do that. It's an interminable time before Dick asks, "So what's the deal? You just dropping in?"

"Right now I don't have a clue what I'm doing. But Chile's not that far away. You should come down; we never did get that South American surf trip."

"I meant your kid, numbnut," Dick snaps. "What's your plan?"

 _A plan? When did Dick Casablancas start asking about a_ plan _?_

"Oh, um, depends on Gai. But, no matter what, I'm not gonna disappear again."

Dick's nods like it's the right answer and digs his toes in the sand. Figuring he won't get a better opening, Logan asks, "What's he like? Any tips you can give me?"

"Fuck you."

When Dick stands and grabs his board, Logan jumps up and puts a hand on his arm to stop him. "Dick?"

"Don't." Dick shakes his head, not meeting Logan's eyes. "This is your shitpile. They're my family and you're-. Don't put me in the middle."

Chastised, Logan puts his hands up in surrender, picks up his own board, and trails Dick to the parking lot. Since he was last here the county installed private, outdoor showers. Dick nods in their direction and throws him a towel after they stow their boards. "Clean up good. Char gets pissed when the truck's full of sand."

Logan shakes his head and follows orders. Back in the day, Dick would have called him whipped for making a remark like that, yet he rather likes this version of his friend.

"Hey," he starts after they've both rinsed off, dressed, and gotten in the truck, "how about you fill me in on Charlotte?"

The nonchalant expression Dick's worked so hard to hold onto slips into something softer, and happier. "Next time, maybe." Dick checks his phone and taps out a text, then throws his phone into the drink holder.

"Can you at least tell me," Logan asks, ignoring the hard look Dick throws him. "Were they happy? Veronica and Gai, I mean, before Sam died?"

Dick lets go of the keys he's just slid in the ignition and leans back in his seat. He brushes at non-existent sand on his jeans, obviously uncomfortable. "Seemed like it."

"Did you like him?"

"Yeah, he was good guy." As Dick starts up the truck and twists to watch behind him as he backs out, Logan can hear him mutter, "Another fucking hero."

* * *

_7:30 am_

**Veronica**

_An acoustic guitar is played, soft and low. Veronica follows a resonant voice to the edge of a short, brick wall. Below it Sam sits in the sand with his back to her, facing the ocean._

Red hot mama

Velvet charmer

Time's come to pay your dues

" _Very funny."_

" _Your fault," Sam snaps. "You know I hate the ocean."_

_Veronica smiles at the irritation in his voice. "Then why did you choose here?"_

" _I didn't." Sam is gone. He sighs and swipes at the edge of the wall next to her before sitting down. The pissy grunt he makes as he rubs his hands together to get rid of the sand has her pressing her lips together. "Give me a lake any day. One with dirt and mud on the shore. Not these little bits of pulverized glass that stick to everything and itch and-"_

" _Someone's in a bitchy mood today."_

_He reaches a hand around her waist and pulls her into his side so her head falls against his shoulder. Their feet dangle off the wall and Sam taps her ankle with his own. "Sorry."_

" _S'okay." Veronica watches the waves lap to the shore and wills him to stay longer. Her eyes slide closed so she can better focus on his arm around her waist, his collarbone under her cheek, and the hand against her hip. Their silence is punctuated by the intermittent horn of a boat far off shore._

" _Is there anything I can say to make you stop?" he asks._

_Her eyes open and the boat is impossibly closer, it's horn more insistent. "I'll stop when I have all the answers."_

" _What difference will that make? Veronica? Veronica." His voice is more insistent and higher-pitched. "Veronica!"_

Instead of a blue sky above her is the white plaster of the bedroom ceiling.

"Here, s'phone," Mac mumbles as she throws the cordless handset onto Veronica's stomach and falls onto the bed. "Me head hurt."

Veronica stumbles out of the room and takes the phone with her. During the night something, a tarantula by the texture and taste, crawled in her mouth and died. The fridge is a torturous and well-lit thirty-seven steps from the bedroom, but inside lies a ginger ale. Elixir. After popping the top and guzzling a good third of it she tests her power of speech. "Hel—" she clears her throat, "Hello?"

"Veronica?"

"Lydia?" Veronica squints enough to see the clock over the stove, but not allow too much sunlight into her head. Not until she can assess the damage from the night before. "What's up? Everything okay?"

"We're fine," Lydia answers, "but the truck's not. We were just heading back when the radiator blew."

"Mmm 'kay." Her brain is sluggish and it takes a minute for Veronica to remember what this has to do with her and Sam at the beach.

_Gai._

Four hours to Santa Barbara. "Give me ten minutes to get ready and I'll head up there."

"No, you'd just pass us. The tow truck driver took us to a shop. They can fix everything and get us back on the road in a few hours. We're waiting for a table to open up for breakfast, then we'll hang out at the mall until it's time to go. We should be back to town by four, at the latest."

Veronica sinks to the floor, her back against the cabinet, and curses silently.

"Veronica?"

"Lyd, can I talk to Gai for a minute?"

"Sure. Gai, your mom!"

The tarantula has crept back into her mouth and she chases it away with another third of the soda. There's raucous laughter she recognizes as Mike's, followed by Gai's voice on the phone. "Yeah?"

"Hey. Lydia told me about the delay."

"Yeah."

The gentle throb in her head grows to a painful pounding at the studied indifference in his voice. "How was last night?"

"Okay."

"What'd you do?"

"Swam. Played video games."

All the times she wished Gai'd give her five minutes of quiet, and now she'd give anything for the chatty, rambling conversationalist he usually was. "Sounds great. What time did you guys get to bed?"

"Mike crashed. Fish and I stayed up."

 _Which means he's running on no sleep. Fuck a duck and my luck._ "Well, I'm glad you had a good time." Hearing more laughter in the background, Veronica prompts, "Gai?"

"Huh? Fish and Mike are messing around. Give me a sec."

"Don't worry about it. I'll see you in a few hours."

"No, wait. Let me move where I can hear." This time a diesel truck blows its horn on Gai's end and pauses their conversation. When it's still fading Veronica has to strain to hear Gai's hardened voice. "Can I ask you something?"

"Okay?"

"What do you think Dad would say, if that Logan guy showed when he was still here?"

"I think," she pauses, unsure how to answer. The words she finds are from long-ago, before Sam signed the papers to legally adopt Gai. "Actually I know what he'd say. We talked about it."

"You did?"

"Yep. Dad said if Logan proved he was deserving, and if you wanted him in your life, he'd do his best to make sure that happened."

"Wait, what do you mean, 'in my life'?" he asks, pouncing on her answer.

Veronica hates it when he's like this—as if every word she says is an excuse to go off. "Nothing, just that your dad was open to whatever you would want. Gai, he knew you loved him. Not Logan or anything else could change that."

In the quiet she can picture him, moving his jaw like he does when he's thinking hard. "Gai?"

"What?" he asks, so low she almost can't hear him.

Every decision she's made has been wrong. Foremost, she never should have planned a meet with Logan until _Gai_ decided he was ready. Veronica reaches for the cell phone on the counter above her head and pats around until her fingers close on it. "Look, don't worry about it. I'll let Logan know the dinner's off."

"Then what?"

"That's entirely up to you."

"I don't ever have to see him."

"Not if you don't want to."

"And you won't see him either."

Her first instinct is to reassure, then reason kicks in. While Gai's her son and she owes him her love, protection, and devotion, none of that includes the right to dictate her friendships. "Honey, that's up to me. If you want me to respect your choices, you have to respect mine."

"So you guys _are_ seeing each other?"

"No. I told you it's not like that."

"You told me a lot of things that weren't true," he snipes.

Frustrated, she throws her head back until it meets with the cabinet. _Ow._ "Knock it off, Gai. This isn't some elaborate ruse so Logan and I can secretly date."

"Does he know that?"

"Yes. For the millionth time we're friends, that it."

"But what if he—"

"Stop. He has a girlfriend and they've been together a long time. _You_. He's here to see YOU."

Gai's silence makes her wonder if he wouldn't rather the opposite were true, just so he could write Logan off entirely.

"Look, I told you I'm calling off the dinner. They'll go back to Chile and if you ever want to meet Logan, _you_ say the word. He'll come."

"They?"

"Gai—"

"She's here? His girlfriend?"

"Yes. She flew in not long after we docked."

"Was she gonna come tonight?"

Veronica hesitates, the rapid-fire thinking hurting her vodka-affected brain. She hadn't decided about including Eva in the dinner, but what the hell. She's cancelling anyway and, if it means her kid will stop stewing over something that no longer exists, it's worth the fib. "Yes."

"Oh." Despite the casual response his relief is tangible, even over the phone. "Hold on."

There's a second and a half of ambient whispers before the phone goes quiet. Veronica wonders who he's talking to. Mike? Fish? Both? The council of twelve-year-olds maybe isn't such a bad thing—it's not like the grownups have done such a bang-up job of managing the situation.

"Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't cancel."

"Gai, are you sure?"

"Uh huh. Lydia's waving us in. I gotta go."

"Okay. Wait, Gai, I love y-."

"Veronica?" Lydia's voice cuts her off. "Pray for me and Big Mike; we've got our hands full for the next few hours. I'm kicking myself for not sending them to bed last night."

Veronica squeezes her temples. Today it's harder than usual to switch the emotional gears. "You thought they'd sleep on the way home and give you some peace, huh?"

"Something like that. Anyway, we'll see you later."

Veronica wishes Lydia good luck, hangs up the phone, and allows a whole five minutes to ponder the trail of mistakes that have led to now. And wonder if her kid will ever trust her again-not that she'd blame him if he didn't. Until she had to lay them out she'd never tallied the thousand lies she'd told him over the years, big and small, in the futile attempt to protect him.

Mac shuffles into the kitchen, her black-tipped hair sticking up like she was a conduit for lighting. Veronica gives her a grim smile. "Mac Attack. What's new?"

"Hmmph." Mac pulls open the fridge, grabs a ginger ale, and winces at the pop and hiss when she opens it. "Is it okay if I hate Logan now?" she asks after taking a big swig.

"Why?"

"I have a hangover. And it's his fault." Mac closes her eyes and slides down to the floor, her back also against a cupboard, and grunts when Keller lays across her lap.

"Want to call and yell at him?"

"Later," Mac shakes her head and drinks more of her soda. "Do you have anything greasy that's _not_ meat?"

Veronica knee-crawls over to the refrigerator, pulls herself up by the handle, and opens the freezer. The cold air on her face feels so good, she leans in and rests her cheek against the plastic-coated siding. A green Morningstar Farms box rests in the back, where it's been for months.

"I've still got that gross, fake sausage you left here."

"Mmm, and toast, too, please."

"Who said I was going to cook?"

"I'm busy."

"Doing what?"

"Petting your dog." By now Keller's twisted so she's laying on her back along Mac's outstretched legs, enjoying a belly scratching.

"Bitch," Veronica grumbles.

Mac slides one eye open. "I'm going to pretend you were talking to the dog. Was that Gai on the phone?"

"Yup," Veronica says, slamming a frying pan on the counter harder than necessary, mollified when Mac winces. "He wants to go forward with meeting Logan tonight."

She puts bread in the toaster and lights the burner under the pan to heat it up, grateful when Mac doesn't ask any follow-up questions.

It's only once the faux-meat is frying, the toast buttered and the coffee going that Mac taps her ankle. "Jason Bourne marathon?"

Veronica flips the sausage patties in the pan and considers the offer: violence and guns and a scrumptiously shirtless Matt Damon. "Perfect."

* * *

_8:30 am_

**Logan**

When Dick pulls up in front of The Grand, he walks around to Logan's side, and waves off the valet. Logan is slow getting out. He absurdly feels like once he leaves the truck they'll never see each other again. "You want to come in? Get breakfast?"

"Char and I've got some brunch, charity thing we're supposed to go to."

"Okay. Can I, um, can I call you sometime?"

"I'll mow the grass that's your ass if you don't." There's a stash of business cards in the dashboard. Dick pulls one out and writes on the back of it before he hands it over.

"Thanks for, you know," Logan manages.

"Thank Charlotte." He winks. "She dry-docked me until we worked things out."

Logan chuckles at Dick's obvious adoration of his wife. "Need me to sign an affidavit?"

"Nah. You're going to Ronnie's for dinner tonight?"

"Hope so. It's still up the air."

"Yeah, that's what Char said. Good luck." Dick holds out his hand, which Logan shakes. He's not sure which one of them move in first, but they share a hug that's rough and punctuated with backslaps. When he pulls away there's a suspicious moisture in Dick's eyes that reflects his own.

Logan stands in that driveway long after he's watched Dick drive off, then looks at the business card. On the back are Dick's cell and home numbers. He tucks it in his wallet carefully, as if it's made of glass.

Still caught up in the morning, he doesn't realize Eva's sitting in a lobby chair until she calls his name. Her sleeveless, magenta dress is soft and flowing, with patterned strips of laser-cut holes bisecting the skirt. The bright pink brings out the red in her cheeks, deepened yesterday afternoon during a beach walk after they checked in. He plops down onto the coffee table in front of her and smiles in a way that feels dopey; he's still on a high from his reconciliation with Dick. "Hey you. Been waiting for me all this time?"

"No." She shakes her head. "I slept, and then I call mí mami, then Elisa. I was coming down for breakfast when I see you saliendo del camion."

Chile seems very far away and it takes a moment for Logan to remember Elisa, the woman who shares Eva's stall at the outdoor market. "Everything okay with Elisa?"

"Sí. She sold my three newest paintings."

When she tells Logan the price for them his eyebrows go up. "Not bad."

"Then we both are having good days," she nods toward the glass-fronted lobby entrance. "Do you talk?"

"Yep, for hours. It was very 'Oprah'. Which reminds me, where did I put my feelings journal?"

Eva stands up, leans over him, and sticks her nose in his hair. After a big sniff, she pulls away with a wry smile. "You talk in the waves?"

"We worked things out. Should I go shower before we eat?"

"No," she takes his hand and pulls him up. "You smell like you. Y estoy muerta de hambre."

The Neptune café is a new addition since he lived in the hotel. Quasi-bistro with long, red booths that stretch along the walls and little tables in front of them. Dark, scarred wood, low hanging lamps, and a checkered floor complete the look. Eva takes the booth side, leaving Logan the chair facing her.

Once they've placed their order, and Eva's dumped enough sugar into her coffee to decimate a cane field, she cocks an eyebrow at him. "Your Veronica llamo while you are gone."

 _Veronica and Eva spoke. On the phone_. Sweat breaks out on his brow despite the cranked-up air conditioning. "Could you not call her 'my' Veronica?"

Eva waves her hand in passive agreement. "Veronica llamo while you are gone."

"And?" His heart becomes Tell-Tale while he waits for her answer.

"She says we are to come at five o'clock."

 _Oh thank god_ is closely followed by the thought of _We?_ "Did she say anything about Gai?"

"I did not ask."

"Did you talk about anything else?"

She studies him for a torturous minute. "No. Why are you being scared?"

"Natural reaction to my girlfriend and ex-girlfriend talking to each other. Why are you being vague?"

"I am not being vague," she sighs. "She asks for you, I tell her you are with your Dick, and she tells me we are to come at five. Eso es."

Logan drops his head down to add cream to his own coffee and watch the colors swirl. As well as to hide the impish smirk he can feel. "Can we not call him 'my' Dick?"

"¿Porque te quiero, huevón?"

"I have no idea." He picks up her hand and kisses the back of it, his smile due to her exasperations as much as the knowledge he'll meet Gai. Tonight. "Once you figure it out let me know, huh?"

Their breakfast conversation is light. Eva updates him on the happenings with her family and he fills her in on his scant conversation with Dick.

Once the dishes are cleared it's close to ten. Eva sandwiches his hand between hers. "I think we should go early to San Diego. Get a hotel there for tonight,"

San Diego. Dinner. Gai. "Sounds good. We can clear out of here, pack up, and call the car service. How do you feel about switching over to a town car?"

"Is this another kind of limusina?"

"No, more like a regular car. It'll be better, don't you think?"

"I think," she picks up his hand and presses it against her cheek, "you are nervous."

"A little," he admits, then rolls his eyes and blows out a gust of air. "A lot. When do you want to leave?"

"Mmm, after the beach. I have on my swim outfit." She reaches for her shoulder and pulls out the strap to the motley colored bikini they bought.

"You go ahead. I think I'll try to catch a nap."

Eva stands and gives him a kiss that's full of reassurance. Her tender look says she knows what he really needs is time to himself. "Watch my bag while I voy al baño."

When she's gone Logan slips her phone out of her purse and dials Veronica's cell. During the fourth ring she picks up, and he can hear a television in the background.

"Hey, Logan here."

"Hi, hold on until I get someplace quieter. No, Mac, don't pause it." The background sounds fade away. "What's up? Did Eva tell you I called?"

"Yeah, she said _we_ should be there at five. Did you mean both of us?"

"Definitely. Bring her."

"Is Gai back yet? How's he doing?"

"Not yet, and as well as can be expected, but I'll know more when I see him. He's supposed to get here about an hour before you are."

"What all did you tell him? I don't want to trip up and say the wrong thing."

"Pretty much anything he'd find on the internet. I kept to the basics about us, that we were friends for a long time, then got close after Duncan and I broke up and Lilly died. I spared him all the reasons but told him we were on and off again for the couple of years before you left."

 _Spared him all the reasons_. It was the nicest way she could say she didn't tell Gai about Logan's slut shaming and ostracizing her, or his downward spiral into being a himbo and outright ruffian. "What did you tell him about why I left?"

"That in one of my investigations I encountered Gory, it got ugly, and you got put in the crosshairs. I explained your reasons for leaving pretty much as you did."

"That's it?"

"I wasn't going tell him about the sex tape, Logan. It's close enough to the truth. What does it matter?"

"It doesn't, I guess. Did you talk about my parents?"

"Anything he'd find on the internet, remember?"

"Shit. How'd he take it?"

"Quietly. Which, with Gai, means not well."

Eva comes back and sits across from him, her face a question he ignores. "Veronica, are you sure we should do this today? If he needs more time—"

"More time could just mean he changes his mind."

Their waitress Cristina, a cute, young thing with a loose, black braid and dimples in both cheeks, brings the check and drops it on the table with two lollipops. An attempt at whimsy, he guesses. Logan pushes it all at Eva to take care of and asks Veronica, "Are you ready for this?"

"No. You?"

"No. We'll see you at five."

* * *

_4:55pm_

**Veronica**

Timing is her specialty. Years of undercover operations have honed her skills so she can bring down criminals by a series of well-timed events. It's even worked well in some spectacular practical jokes. Yet tonight, when it's important, she's felled by timing.

Damn San Diego traffic jams. Damn people who don't answer their cell phones. Damn her, who planned this dinner in the first place.

It doesn't help that both she and Mac fell asleep during the second movie, which helped her hangover but put the dinner prep way behind schedule. More bad timing. Her anxiety amped well past eleven when Mac had to leave to answer an emergency call for a downed server, so she couldn't help.

Now, with Gai almost home and Logan due any minute, she's a wreck. Still, Veronica's relieved when Keller gives her booming 'visitors' bark. She's heard the worst part about walking over hot coals is the anticipation; with any luck the same truth will apply here.

She snaps her fingers at Keller, orders "Heel", and opens the door.

Logan stands there, like something from a long forgotten dream, much improved than even a few days ago. His hair is shorter and professionally cut, and his beard thinned and groomed better than a pair of drugstore clippers could manage. While his nose is still pushed to the side and his crow's feet etched deep, his skin glows and the broken tooth is repaired. The jeans, moccasins, and untucked, gray button-up shirt he's wearing are simple, but of good quality.

This is the Logan she would have imagined at this age, if she'd ever allowed herself to do so.

His eyes center on Keller and widen, like most people the first time they meet the dog. Her girl stands as high as Veronica's thigh, a pure mutt with shaggy black hair and ginger markings. One of her ears is big and floppy but the other's worn away to a scraggly nub of flesh. Bubbles of crusty black skin cover her face and there's only closed slits where her eyes should be.

"Don't let her scare you. She's gentle as a lamb. Come on in."

Eva, whom Veronica could barely see behind Logan, follows him inside and warily sidesteps the dog. "You are sure?"

"I promise. Hi, I'm Veronica."

Logan, clears his throat, his eyes still on Keller. "Veronica, Eva. Eva, Veronica."

Veronica finds her hand dwarfed inside Eva's as she receives a kiss aside each cheek. She's only seen the woman once before, on a security camera from an overhead angle, and her first impression had been that she was tall and pretty. In person, especially this close, she has to adjust that to powerful and beautiful. Though what really surprises her is the woman's age. Fine lines surround her eyes, mouth and, even more telling, her neck. That, with the noticeable veins in the back of her hands, suggest she's at least a decade older than Logan.

Still, in the feminine dress, Eva must shine next to her. The dark jeans and green camp shirt that seemed fine a moment ago now feel dowdy. The comparison that isn't helped by the woman's rested, sun-kissed look when Veronica spent five minutes trying to hide the dark circles under own her eyes with makeup. _Damn Mac and her vodka._

Eva holds up a pink bakery box and smiles, small and nervous-like. "I hope Gaius likes eclairs."

"Oh, I said you didn't have to bring anything."

"It is not too much. May I put it in the refrigerator?"

"That would be great, thanks." She points to the kitchen doorway. "Right through there."

Veronica turns from where's Eva disappeared into the kitchen to find Logan's frown now on her.

"You look tired – are you okay?" he asks.

"I'm fine."

She can tell he's not satisfied with her answer, but they silently agree to drop it when Eva comes back and loops her arm in his.

"Where's Gai?" Logan whispers, casting a glance behind her.

"He's running late. I take it you didn't get my message?"

"What message?"

She rolls her eyes. "The one asking you to come at six."

Logan looks at Eva, who shrugs and shakes her head. "When did you call?" he asks, his hands reaching to dig into Eva's purse.

"Forty-five minutes ago?"

"Oh." He frowns at the cell, the voice mail message clearly indicated. "We were getting ready and didn't hear the phone."

"It's okay."

Keller whines and shifts her front paws at Veronica's feet. Grateful for the distraction, she laughs and takes a step backward. "Hey, Keller gets a little nervous around new people. Mind letting her sniff your hand?"

Eva looks at Logan for reassurance and he nods. The dog sniffs, then politely licks the knuckles Eva offers while Veronica says, " _Friend,_ Keller."

Logan frowns. "Naming her Killer isn't exactly reassuring, you know."

"Keller," Veronica corrects, emphasizing the first vowel. "Ante up, Echolls. She's waiting."

He goes through the same ritual as Eva, and then braves scratching Keller's chest. Keller, not a fan of strangers, huffs and moves around them to settle back on her bed with a resigned whine. Her attention fixates on the door and she ignores the people in the room.

Logan brows draw down, watching. "What's the story there?"

"She knows it's almost dinnertime. When everyone's supposed to come home."

"Oh," he says. Then again, deeper, with understanding. " _Oh_."

"Yeah."

"Actually, I was asking about—" he says, swirling a finger around his face to indicate Keller's eyes. Or lack thereof.

She shrugs, and tucks her hands in her back pocket. Or most of her hands, since the splint on her finger won't fit. "Near as they can tell she got a chemical shower when she was a puppy. Poor thing was in sorry shape when someone dumped her in an overnight box at the animal shelter. Lost both her eyes and the hearing in one ear."

Eva shakes her head and clasps Logan's hand. "This is so sad. How does she come to live with you?"

"Sam was at the vet's with one of our foster dogs when they brought her in." Veronica smiles, remembering the fight they had about adopting a disabled dog. Lois wasn't exaggerating when she said Sam was stubborn.

"The vet was going to put her down because he said even if he could save her, it would be too expensive and no one would adopt her. Sam handed over his credit card, pulled up a chair and told them she was his damn dog and he wasn't leaving until they'd done everything they could."

Veronica can't read the look Logan's giving her. Watchful? Contemplative? Judgy? Whatever it is she doesn't like it. "Can I get you guys anything to drink?"

Eva shakes her head. "Veronica, before Gaius is here, maybe I should leave."

"Maybe we both should?" Logan asks, glancing at Eva. "We can come back in an hour, or two? Whenever you're ready."

Indecision paralyzes her. The sensation is as uncomfortable as it is unfamiliar. "I don't know. Maybe that would be-."

Keller barks, scrambles to her feet, and takes off to the kitchen.

Whooping and laughter precede the familiar thud of the gate connecting Mike and Lydia's backyard to her own. Veronica gets to the kitchen the same time the door to the garage flies open.

Gai's sandwiched between Mike and Fish as they push through. They fall inside and lunge forward to be the first to tag the doorframe between the kitchen and living room. Gai abruptly stills but Fish and Mike jostle each other, oblivious to the audience in front of them.

"I totally won."

"Only because you cheated, buttface."

"Yeah, if you call running faster cheating."

Lydia, a small, pretty woman with chestnut hair and tired eyes, comes up behind them. "If it was a race to get on my last nerve you've all won."

Mike, a moist bruiser who, at twelve, is already five-foot-six with hands the size of salad plates, gives her an abashed grin. "Sorry, mom."

Not even attempting to look contrite, Fish is still trying to jab Mike with her elbow. The girl is a blur of frizzy red-hair and frog-boned limbs, which only still when she notices Gai looking toward Eva and Logan.

If Logan inherited even one acting gene from his dubiously talented parents he's not employing it now. He stares back at Gai with his mouth slack until Eva subtly yanks on his pinky finger. Then his jaw slams shut and he slides his eyes toward Veronica's.

_Oh shit, Meepy Logan. Pull it together, Echolls._

Veronica moves so she's standing directly between her son and his _what do I call him? Sire?_ "Eva and Logan, this is Lydia Dunati. And these are Mike, Fish, and,um, Gai," she says pointing to the kids in turn.

Logan seems unable to form words and his eyes never leave Gai. Veronica's grateful when Eva distracts attention from him by reaching out to shake Lydia and the kids' hands. "Fish?" she asks.

Fish grimaces. "If you ask my mom, my name's Priscilla Poisson-"

"Prissy Poison Fish," Mike taunts.

He earns a slap up the back of his head from Gai, Fish's staunchest support since they were six. "Shut up, _Little_ Mike."

The byplay is rote, as is the resultant headlock Mike puts Gai in. Veronica's two-fingered whistle brings an end to the wrestling match. "Fish, go home; your mom's waiting for you."

The soft shoulder-punch Fish gives Gai, and his answering nod as she leaves, is enough for Veronica to know they talked, while Mike appears oblivious. Gai's choice in confidants says he wanted critical opinion, instead of the clueless-puppy excitement that's Mike's specialty.

Lydia and Mike get their cue to leave, yet it takes forever. Gai thanks them, and Lydia prattles on about some backyard camping plans the kids have made. Veronica subtly ushers them toward the door, making what she hopes are the appropriate noises and responses.

And then, just as she's about to get them out of the kitchen and into the garage, Lydia turns around. "Hey, did you know your back light is out?"

 _Oh for the love of—just go!_ "I saw that the other night, thanks."

Lydia leans in the doorway, like she's got nowhere else to be. "I noticed it when you were gone. Sorry I forgot to tell you."

Veronica squelches the impulse to drop-kick Lydia down the garage steps. Glancing behind her, she sees Gai waiting, doing his best not to look at Logan.

Logan's trying to act casual about it, his hands shoved deep in his back pockets. Eva smile is for her, full of understanding and encouragement.

"Do you want me to send Big Mike over to change it? It's kind of high up." Lydia prattles on, unaware of the drama playing out ten feet from her.

"No thanks. I'll take care of it."

"Okay." Lydia waves, "Nice to meet you, Logan and Eva."

Veronica waits while the three other adults exchange niceties and Lydia leaves, mentally searching for a way to get her son alone for five minutes so she can check in with him. Returning to the doorway between the kitchen and living room, her eyes fall onto the items around his feet. "Gai, I'll help you put your stuff away—"

"Nope. I got it." Gai takes fifteen whole seconds to scoop up his backpack and sleeping back, throw them in his room down the hall, and return. Pointedly ignoring Logan, he asks. "Is dinner ready?"

"I still have a couple of things to finish up in the kitchen so, maybe half an hour?" Veronica looks between Logan and Gai, uncertain how to both pull off a dinner and mediate. Logan can't keep his eyes from centering on Gai. He's lost, unable to help her out.

"What light you need changed?" Eva asks.

"Hmm?" The question is so removed from what's happening in front of them she can't imagine why Eva would even bring it up. "It's one in the backyard. Nothing to worry about."

_Do I bring everyone in the kitchen with me? Sit them down and shove carrots and ranch in their faces until I can finish cooking?_

Eva nudges Logan and whispers something in Spanish to him, so low Veronica can't make out any of the words. He clears his throat and offers, "I can change the light, while you finish up with dinner."

Gai jumps up and backs toward the kitchen, nodding at Logan to follow him. "C'mon. I'll show you where the extra bulbs are."

"Well," Logan hesitates. His eyes radiate uncertainty while his body strains to where Gai's disappeared, waiting for her permission to follow their son.

Fear curls around the ventricles of her heart at the idea of Logan and Gai alone, where she can't monitor their interaction. Which is obviously what Gai wants. In that moment Veronica has to admit Wallace wasn't entirely wrong about her need for control. "Go ahead."

"Don't worry," he lifts the corners of his mouth in reassurance. He touches Eva's hip and accepts her nod of encouragement before following Gai.

Once the room quiets and Keller goes back to her bed by the door, Veronica and Eva take each other in. Eva bites her lip. "Is this wrong to suggest Malachy fix the light? I do not expect Gaius to go."

"No, it's okay. The whole idea was for them to get to know each other, right?" Veronica breathes through clenched teeth, hoping it will calm the shakiness in her voice. "Will you excuse me for a minute?"

"Of course."

She makes it to the master bathroom, but barely. Her knees hit the floor and she rests her head on the cool linoleum. Hot tears threaten and her breath comes in hitches while grief and anger do battle in her soul.

_SamSamSamineedyou/Ican'tdothisalone/I'mgoingtomakethempay/whydidyougodownthatalley/damnyoutohellfordying/nonottohell/I'msorry/helpme/helpGai/Gai/GAI_

It's the thought of Gai that gets her off the floor, as he has for the past year. Gai, who has her willing the tears back before they can fall and leave their evidence. Taking measured breaths until her pulse slows close enough to normal.

She gets back out to the living room to find Eva by the piano, running her fingers over the hand-filled sheet music in the guide rail.

Eva smiles and glances around. "Your home is very nice."

"Thanks."

"Do you play?" she asks, pointing at the piano.

"No," Veronica shakes her head, "just Sam. It was his grandfather's. So how about that drink? I have water, iced tea, soda, lemonade, and a nice Chardonnay."

"I will like a little wine, gracias."

In the kitchen, while Veronica pours the wine and grabs a ginger ale for herself, Eva studies the oversized black and white photograph hanging on the wall behind the table. It's of Sam's grandparents and several of their friends laughing over a game of gin rummy. A fug of cigarette smoke in the room lends the picture the quality of a memory.

"This is your family?"

"Sam's grandparents," Veronica answers, handing Eva the wine. "Taken right in this room. See how the light is the same?"

Eva glances from the photo, to the vintage fixture hanging over the table, and back to the photo. "They look happy," she says.

"Don't they?" She touches the corner of the frame, straightening it minutely. "I found the picture in a box in the garage when I first moved in, so had it restored and framed for Sam as a present. He loved it-said they were always laughing like that."

Waving a silent invitation toward a kitchen chair, she moves to start dinner while Eva has a seat. "Let me know if you want more wine."

It's hard to say if it's the splint on her finger, her nervousness about what's going on in the backyard, or the knowledge that she's being watched, but Veronica drops the bowl of vegetables when moving them from the sink to the counter for cutting. "Shit," she mutters, feeling the same panic from earlier closing in.

Her hands reach for the bell pepper in the same moment Eva's grabs for the squash. "Here you are."

"Thanks." Once gathered, Veronica returns the vegetables to the sink to rewash them.

"May I do something?" Eva asks. "It cannot be easy to cook with one hand."

She shakes her head, refusal an ingrained response. One that makes more sense than admitting she's overwhelmed.

"Please?" Eva's large, warm hand closes over hers. "I am nervous for Malachy. It will help me to be busy."

Veronica's eyes meet Eva's. The woman seems sincere, and her plea makes sense. How would she feel, were she in the woman's situation? If it were Sam who found out he had a child, and she had to stand by idly while he worked it out?

"Okay, thanks."

The recipe for Chicken of the Gods, Gai's favorite, is tacked to the refrigerator, sharing a magnet with the housecleaner's check. At Veronica's direction, Eva studies it while Veronica pours her wine and grabs another ginger ale for herself.

Next to the stove is a Mason jar filled with paper-wrapped chopsticks from the times they get Chinese takeout. Veronica watches as Eva unwraps a set, winds her long hair in a bun, and uses the sticks to secure it. It's something that never worked with her own fine strands.

"Tell me what I am to do."

"What? Oh. The chicken's marinated. Do you want to roll it all in the chestnut flour and cook it? I can get everything else ready and then make the sauce."

"Sí." Eva washes her hands and finds the chicken in the fridge. The flour is already laid out on a plate and the skillet on the stove has the butter in it.

From her competent movements it's obvious Eva's comfortable in the kitchen. Curiosity about this woman Logan has spent a third of his life with is a welcome distraction from the goings-on outside and Veronica grasps at it. "Do you cook much?"

"Mmm," Eva holds up a hand with flour-tipped fingers and waves it in the air. "Some. If Malachy is home I am cooking. He gets hungry and looks at me like a sad puppy with an empty dish. All he can make good is panqueques."

Veronica laughs with her, remembering, as she checks the time on the rice cooker. "Our middle school home-ec teacher refused to pass him until he made one food that was edible. I had to teach him on the sly and we made such a mess, Letty banned us from her kitchen."

"Letty?"

"Leticia Navarro, his housekeeper."

"Why does his mother not teach him?"

"Lynn wasn't much for cooking. Or eating, for that matter. What about your mom?"

"We have a big family and mí mama is always in the kitchen. She teaches me to make carbonada and empanadas when I am small, so I may help." Her smile is wistful. "I begin this with my son also, when he is so little he can only stand and roll the dough."

Logan hadn't mentioned anything about Eva having children. He only said _he_ didn't have any. That he's played daddy to someone else's child, while Gai went his first four years without a father, sends a white-hot bolt of anger and jealousy though her.

Glad for something to do, she pulls the vegetables closer to sprinkle on baking soda and give them another one-handed scrub. It's good she and Eva are working back-to-back since it's not the woman's fault Logan withheld information. "Logan didn't mention you had a son."

"He dies, long before I meet Malachy."

Veronica's hands still over the vegetables; all traces of baking soda rinse down the drain. She turns the water off and turns to face Eva's back. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Eva's look is kind as she glances over her shoulder and returns her attention to the chicken. "It is a car accident," she says, answering the question Veronica wants to ask but wouldn't. "My husband is driving, it is raining… I meet Malachy after, when I am still grieving for my husband and sons. He is so kind, never says it has been long enough."

"Sons?" Veronica asks, sure Eva spoke in the singular the first time.

"I am very pregnant before the accident."

This time Eva doesn't turn around and, out of respect, Veronica concentrates on the bell peppers, squash, and asparagus she's supposed to be chopping.

"Malachy is grieving then, too. For you."

Eva's turned to watch her and Veronica meet her gaze. "I don't know what to say to that."

"He tells me of your kiss on the ship."

The woman's forthrightness would be off-putting if Veronica didn't respect it so much. "Oh. Eva. Did he tell you I didn't know it was Logan when I kissed him? And then when he pulled away, I just-" Veronica continues, not waiting for Eva to answer, "it was a stupid, drunk mistake that had everything to do with me and nothing to do with him."

Eva's looking at her like she's a puzzle to figure out. "Veronica, do you still love Mal-Logan?"

The woman has spent the last nine years with Logan and is standing by him through this roller coaster event of finding out he's a father. She's also shared some damn personal information. An honest answer is deserved, as hard as that is to give a stranger. "I'll probably always love him. Am I _in_ love with him? No. I haven't been for a long time.

"I understand." Eva's hands return to coating the chicken, though her movements are slower and more thorough than necessary. "Malachy tells me this, too. Seeing you again has helped him find, resolution I think is the right word."

"I don't know what to say to that, either."

"Say nothing. I only talk because it will not be easy, to share a child. If your feelings are confused this will only be harder, you understand?"

_Share a child? Don't jump the gun on me, lady._

"We're friends, nothing more," Veronica asserts and knows it's an understatement. She and Logan are bound by history, blood, and progeny, yet friendship is at the core of their connection. "As for sharing Gai, _I'll_ make what I think are the best decisions. He comes first, no matter what."

Eva evaluates her before she nods, says, "Thank you," and turns back to the chicken.

Veronica's left there, not sure exactly what she's being thanked for. Instead of pursuing the conversation, because it's got nowhere good to go, she finishes chopping the vegetables. Loading them into a Pyrex dish with a coating of olive oil and kosher salt, she places them in the preheated oven to roast.

Fifteen minutes have passed by and Logan and Gai are still outside. The right amount of time to change a lightbulb? Maybe. Long enough for this little meetup to go really, really wrong? Definitely.

_Let someone else take the lead once in a while._

_Shut up, Sam._

* * *

**Logan**

While it goes against every instinct of self-preservation to leave Veronica and Eva together, the opportunity to be with Gai is an enticement Logan can't refuse.

A picture and video were one thing—documentary evidence that this child existed. But now, seeing the kid in front of him walking, talking, breathing and living, he'd akin it to watching Neil Armstrong on TV to stepping on the moon himself. Nothing could've prepared him for this gut-punch, wondrous reality.

Through the kitchen, another homey, uncluttered room with a square, oak table and real wood cabinets as old as the house, Logan finds the door open to the garage. Gai has slid around a large, tarp-covered mound that takes up a fourth of the room to rummage around on some wood shelves built into the corner. The rest of the garage is cluttered with bikes, a kayak, and workout equipment.

He takes a moment to study the boy further. Again there are the similarities he noticed before-the tall, square forehead and straight nose. At the edge of his eyebrow is a small, faded scar and his hands are long-fingered, albeit still with the softness inherent in children. His cheeks are less round than in the younger photos and the long, slim neck shows he's on the verge of adolescence. His movements contain an innate grace that Logan suspects will only increase as he gets older.

_Shikers, Mars. We made one gorgeous kid._

"Find," Logan clears his throat when his voice comes out choked, "Find what you're looking for?"

"Just a minute" Gai grabs a large bulb and rummages in an open toolbox until he finds a screwdriver. He lopes over to Logan and points to the ladder on the wall behind him. "You're gonna need that."

Logan grabs the ladder and follows Gai out to a decent sized concrete patio. An arbor covers the area with vines of red passion flowers and something else that's not in bloom yet.

Beyond, a rectangle of wood chips has a horseshoe pit at each end. There's a small path leading to a gate dead center in the shrub-lined, wood fence. Logan points to gate. "Where does that go?"

"Mike's. My dad put it in when we were little so we'd stop climbing the fence to play with each other. The light's up here."

Logan's sure he's not imagining the subtle emphasis Gai places on 'my dad'.

On the back of the house is a floodlight; it's covered in a three-sided wood box with a wire cage front and spikes on the topmost level to deter birds from resting there. Although the spikes didn't discourage a small one from building a nest inside the cage, on top of the light fixture. "Do you want me to clear off the nest, too?"

"No, they build up there every year. _My dad_ always waited until fall to clear it off."

Nope. Definitely not imagining that emphasis.

"Leave the nest, got it." Logan sets up the ladder. "Give me the bulb and screwdriver and hold this steady?"

Gai hesitates. When he takes in a breath and looks away it's obvious he's got something to say.

Logan rests an elbow on the ladder, as much for support as to do something other than just stand there.

Gai says nothing.

Still nothing.

Birds twitter. The distant sound of a motorcycle rises and fades. A man silently goes crazy in the backyard of a house in San Diego.

"So," Logan prompts, as calmly as he can.

"So…"Gai trails off. He runs the screwdriver along the seam of his khaki pants and stares down at his once-white Van's. They're covered in handwritten words that have blurred and faded with wear. "I didn't really want to meet you."

"What made you change your mind?" When Gai doesn't respond Logan pushes away the hollowness caused by the boy's silence. "Do you want me to go?" _Say no, please._

"You'd do that? You'd just leave?"

"I will if you ask me to." To be under the scrutiny of a twelve-year old boy who holds your fate in his hands is an uncomfortable thing. Running his fingers over the textured step of the ladder, Logan forces himself to not look away. "Are you asking me to?"

The kid opens his mouth to speak, then closes it and shrugs, an ineloquent non-answer Logan has no idea what to do with. "My mom told me how you beat up that Russian dude that was threatening her and he put a hit out on you and you left to keep her from going after him."

"I wouldn't have left, Gai, if I thought I had another choice."

"Yeah, she said that, too." Gai runs the screwdriver down the seam of his pants again, this time so hard Logan's surprised he doesn't rip a hole in them. "She's like that, you know? If she thought that mob guy killed you she would've gone after him."

Something in the way he says it makes Logan think he's scared by the thought. He has to fight the instinct to throw an arm around Gai and give reassurance, for what he doesn't know. "I do know. Your mom always had my back."

"She told me other stuff, too. Like about your mom and dad."

"That must have been hard to hear."

"Not as hard as finding out your mom lied to you your whole life." Gai's mouth turns down and his eyes fall again to his shoes. "She lied about everything. You know, like Lilly? I always thought she died in a car accident. I heard my mom talking to my dad late one night and she said there was a traffic cam picture of Lilly right before she died, singing and looking happy."

"Did she _tell_ you Lilly died in a car accident?"

"No, but letting me believe something wrong is the same lying."

"I'm sure she was just trying to protect you from the truth. It's like dominoes, you know?"

"No."

"Okay, well, have you ever lined up dominoes so that when you push over the first one they all fall down?" Gai nods. "Telling you about Lilly would have led to telling you about my dad, then about me."

"So?"

"So," Logan shakes his head. "Until last week that story ended very differently. I can't blame your mom for wanting to protect you from my family's sordid history as long as possible."

"I guess," Gai shrugs. "The whole thing _is_ pretty fucked up."

"Fucked up," he restates, lifting an eyebrow in surprise how harsh it sounds, coming from a little kid.

"Yeah," Gai says, and there's a challenge in it. Though whether it's because of the curse word or the subject matter, Logan's not sure. It's not like he didn't use the same language at that age, though never in front of Aaron. Because even a kid knows not to hit a bee hive with a stick.

"Okay, well, if you mean the stuff my dad did, you know who Franklin Delano Roosevelt is, right?"

"One of the presidents."

"One of the good ones. But go far enough in his family tree you'll find William Stoughton, a real asshat who was a prosecutor at the Salem Witch trials."

"So?"

"So, my dad _was_ fucked up. And he did some fucked up things. The only reason anybody would even care is because he was famous for a while. But he has as little to do with you as William Stoughton did with FDR."

It's too much abstract thinking for a twelve-year-old, Logan realizes, when Gai just frowns. His first opportunity to parent, to share some hard-earned wisdom, and he's bombed it. "What do you say we get this light changed?"

Gai wordlessly hands over the lightbulb and screwdriver, then grabs onto the ladder to secure it while Logan climbs. When he gets close to the light, a small, brown bird shoots out of the nest leaving behind five miniscule eggs. Logan's careful not to disturb the avian home while he unscrews and lifts the cage on its hinges. "You know, if you don't want them to put a nest up here, there's other kinds of light cages you can get."

"Dad made it that way so the blue jays would stop knocking out the finches. Blue jays are kind of jerks, you know?"

 _Saint Sam strikes again._ "Incoming." Logan drops the light down and Gai belly-catches it, like he would a football.

While Logan replaces the bulb and screws the cage back into place he searches his mind for something to say. Anything. The only noise in the yard is the finch who's chirping a fit.

A glimpse of yellow and orange far up on the roof catches his eye when he's done with the light and Logan raises on tiptoe to see what it is. "You throw a hacky sack up here?"

"A couple days ago. Just leave it, it's too far back."

Logan steps down to a safer level. "Got a flat ended broom?"

Gai nods and moseys back to the garage. He takes his time, returning with a standard shop broom, unwieldly when you're perched on a tiny, unstable surface. It doesn't matter. Logan's pretty sure if the kid said he left his toy on the moon, he'd work out a way to launch a rocket ship to retrieve it.

"Hold the ladder really steady."

It takes three attempts to get the small ball within arm's reach. Logan tosses down the broom and clambers down, hacky sack in hand.

"Thanks," Gai mutters. They stand there in silence as awkward as a newborn colt. Gai looks at him, his head cocked. "You look different."

"Different from what?"

"Your picture. Mom showed me one, from a Homecoming dance you went to."

"That was a long time ago."

The hacky sack is still in Logan's hand and he rolls it from palm to fingers. A brown blur shoots into the nest above them and for the first time Logan finds himself sharing a grin with his son.

Which Gai immediately drops.

Back in the garage he hangs up the ladder while Gai again goes around the tarp-shaped mound to put away the screwdriver. The tarp has a fine layer of dust on it and an enterprising spider has built a web in one of the folds. "You got a DeLorean under here?"

"A what?"

_Nice. The man who raised him died less than a year ago and you just asked him if he has a time machine in his garage?_

"Nothing. Gai, can I say one more thing?" He waits for the kid's shrug of assent. "I'm sorry about S-. About your dad. From what your mom says he was a pretty great guy."

The kid toes the floor with his shoe instead of answering; his small body lost in the oversized blue cardigan. They stand there in silence and Logan remembers the discomfort of condolences, how sorry just didn't cut it. Even if someone was sincere it was still like having a bamboo shoot put through the metaphorical fingernail of your heart.

Remembering the hacky sack in his hand, he drops it on his shoe and catches it on the upswing while Gai watches. "I didn't know hacky sacks were still a thing. Want to play until dinner's ready?"

"No."

* * *

_6:00pm_

**Gai**

_You are what you eat_. Grandpa Giv makes that joke every time they have chicken. Now, eating dinner, Gai thinks it's true.

Twice he could've said it, toldthe Logan dude to go away and never come back. To leave him and Mom alone. Twice the words got stuck in his throat. Fish was right—it's hard for him to be rude to grownups, especially ones he doesn't know.

Now he's slogged through forty minutes of a dinner he never wanted to happen and the worst part is, it's okay. Not great, but okay.

Mom leans forward, her forearms on the table. "Eva, Logan said your place is right on the beach?"

"Si. La Culpa is tiny, and many years old, but the ocean is so beautiful,"

"La Culpa. Is that the name of the town where you live?"

 _He_ clears his throat. "No, we're a little outside of Antofagasta. La Culpa is what the old man who sold me the house called it."

Gai thinks of other places with names: The White House, Buckingham Palace, Hearst Castle. He nods at Eva. "You said it's small. Aren't houses with names really big?"

"Or they have a story," _He_ answers for her. "La Culpa mean's 'The Guilt'. The man who sold it said the house's original owner betrayed the woman he loved. He built the house and named it as an act of contrition but she married another instead. Then she killed herself three months later and he lived there until the day he died, as penance."

"Ugh. Why'd _you_ want to live there?" Gai asks Eva. He'd heard Mom joke that she only married Dad because she liked his house.

"I needed a job, but sí, I think this when I first come to La Culpa. It is a, what do you say," Eva turns to _him_ and asks, "a dump?"

"I hired her as my housekeeper." The dude takes a drink of his lemonade and does some kind of half-grin, half-eye roll thing. "Turns out I paid her to put _me_ to work.

Eva leans forward. "Gaius, Veronica, you have never seen such a place. The floor is all splinters, tiles in the kitchen are broken and cartón on three windows. My father is," she again turns _him_. "Malachy, come ce dice empresario de la construcción?"

"Her dad's a contractor," he translates.

"Contractor, si. He sees I will be," she lifts her hand over her head, "a big girl, that maybe I will never marry. So he teaches me. I make Malachy work with me to fix it all."

"You're a brave woman if you put tools in this man's hands, Eva. He once replaced a car battery and blew out all the wiring." Mom laughs, her eyes trying to sweep Gai up in her humor. "He had to buy a whole new car. No loss, though. The thing was bright yellow and uglier than a baby swan."

"Gai, what your mom's leaving out is that she _watched_ me blow out the wiring."

"I seem to remember you saying it was my role to play the girl and just hand you tools."

"Your first tip I was in over my head should have been when I called the wrench 'that pacman thingy'."

"No, my first tip was when you said any idiot could change a battery." Mom chuckles. "I can only imagine the damage you'd cause with power tools."

Eva laughs and lays her hand on the dude's, making him smile. "Veronica, he knows nothing! I see this, so at first I give him the jobs that are for children."

"Uh uh. No." He waggles a finger between Eva and Mom. "If you're going to talk bad about me at least have the decency to do it behind my back."

Mom's smiling in a way she almost never does anymore. Like she means it.

"Will you get my bag, Gaius, por favor?" Eva asks him as she rifles through the basket of paper napkins they keep on the table. She picks the really heavy ones that comes with their favorite Italian takeout. "It is in the living room. With my pens I will draw you a picture of the house."

"I'll get it," Mom answers.

While they wait there's a lull. Gai's mind spins with the words he wanted to say earlier, his feelings all mixed up and, for like the tenth time that night, Eva is the one to break the quiet. "Gaius tell me, how do you like school?"

Gai shrugs. Weird that all grownups ask the same lame questions, no matter where they're from. "It's okay."

"What is your favorite thing to learn?"

He shrugs again and Mom gives him a soft kick as she sits down, telling him he's being rude, so he says, "Nuclear science."

Eva's eye widen. ""You are serious? But you are a child. They teach this in American schools?"

"Not usually, but I've got this crazy teacher. He wears dark glasses." Gai takes a drink of his water. "I'm getting good grades."

"Things are going great, then?" The Logan dude asks, a stupid smirk on his face.

"And they're only getting better," Mom sighs as she hands the bag to Eva, and gives Gai a look that tells him not to push it.

Usually it'd be funny, but no way is Gai going to laugh with _him_ over something with lyrics. That feeling comes back, the same one whenever he misses Dad. Like a creature burrowing into his body, gnawing its way to the deepest part of him.

Eva glances between the three of them and the inside of her purse. "A joke?"

"It's the words to an old song," the dude explains and turns toward Gai. "Too old for _you_ to know."

"My _real_ dadtaught me lots of old music, didn't he Mom?"

Her eyes flit and she does that smile/grimace thing across the table toward _him_ , like she's sorry or something. "Your Grandma, too."

Gai doesn't like it, that she's apologizing when all he did was say the truth. For the first time since they sat down he looks right at the Logan dude. "If you grew up in Neptune, you know Mac and Wallace and Dick, right? I bet they were pissed when they found out what happened, that you just took off and lied to everyone."

"Mac and Wallace were pretty much your mom's friends. But Dick and I had to work things out, which I think we did. We went surfing this morning."

Gai swallows a drink of water, trying to push down the big lump in his throat. Mom said Uncle Dick knew who the dude was; she didn't say they were friends.

"What about you? Ever try surfing?"

"Surfing's lame."

This time when Mom smiles it's plastic, probably because she knows he's lying—surfing's awesome. He might've learned except for that time Uncle Dick almost let him drown when he was three and the board hit him in the head.

Mom gives him a nudge with her foot while she does that apology thing toward the Logan dude again. "We didn't really spend a lot of time at the beach."

"Yeah, you said Sam didn't like it."

"He didn't." She grins, "Sam said it was a good thing or he would've ended up spending a lot more time with Dick."

 _He_ frowns, his mouth falling open. The dude's a serious mouth-breather. "From what Dick said, I thought they got along."

"Sam adored Charlotte. Dick he preferred in groups, like a band you'd throw on a mix tape but whose concert you'd never go to. I think his actual words were that Dick's the living embodiment of a _Poison_ song."

The dude laughs, choking on the lemonade he's drinking and Eva pats him on the back. Mom stands up and grabs the serving dishes. "I'll just throw these in the sink and deal with them later. Gai do you want to make the coffee?"

"Yeah." He can't stand to drink the stuff but there's something in the ritual he likes, especially the smell when measuring out the grounds. Besides, coffee means dinner's ending. And everyone leaves.

Mom opens the fridge to grab the cream. Inside's a pink baker's box, and Gai scowls at it. Their family gets their desserts from a bakery that uses blue boxes, so this came from somewhere else.

She sets the sugar and spoons next to the cream on the counter and mouths so only he can see, "You okay?"

Gai shrugs and turns his back to her. He's not sure what he is. She slips her hand around his waist and reaches around him, sneaking in a quick hug from behind while turning on the coffee maker. Some of the tension leaves his back, even though he feels cold when she moves away.

"So, how was it seeing Dick again?" Mom asks when she takes the cream and sugar to the table.

"Great, actually. I didn't realize how much I missed him."

"He missed you, too. He refused to have a best man at his wedding since you weren't there."

"Oh." A silence fills the room and Gai's mouth floods with the nasty bite of victory at how embarrassed _he_ sounds.

"Hey, Logan," Mom says. "I didn't mean to—"

"Forget it. How long have he and Charlotte been married?"

"Eight years," Mom sighs. "You met her yesterday, right?"

 _He_ chuckles. "She was _not_ what I would have expected."

While the coffee drips, Gai hoists himself onto the counter. Mom and the dude chat, catching up on people they both knew, as Eva sketches out her picture. He'd forgotten this, how it is when grownups get caught up in talking. The way, when he kept quiet, they kinda forgot he was there. The lack of sleep over the past two nights creeps over him and he wishes he could go to bed. Pretend they're someone else and fall asleep to their voices murmuring.

He hates how empty the noises in his house are now, always some TV show or lame music his mom doesn't even pay attention to.

"And Wallace?" The dude asks. "You guys still friends?"

"The best. He's divorced, living in Sunnyvale. Has two little kids, Hank and Natalie."

"Casey Gant?"

"Heading the publishing firm he inherited from his grandmother. On his second marriage, one kid from each."

"Bunch of breeders in this town. Seriously, does everyone have kids?"

"We're just at that age, I guess. I wouldn't be surprised if Dick and Charlotte start soon. She's been the holdout but the last time we went shopping I caught her eyeing the baby stores."

The coffee pot gurgles and nudges Gai out of his stupor. Wishing for his bed and his headphones, he hops off the counter and sits at the table before he actually falls asleep.

"Yeah, I'm having a little trouble picturing Dick as a dad." The Logan dude snorts and shakes his head as if to clear it from a bad dream.

"You might be surprised," Mom answers with that hint of warning in her voice, the one Gai knows to watch out for. "Dick and I became roommates when Gai was less than a year old. Then, after graduation, he and Charlotte moved to Virginia and took care of Gai when I was at the FBI Academy. He's actually great with kids."

"I, um," The dude glances at Eva, who's sketching details into a drawing of what looks like a small house with a big porch. "I'm not sure which part of that to respond to first."

"Don't. Just understand a lot's changed since you left."

"That's fair."

Mom and the Logan dude have another one of those silent conversations, which Mom breaks off to look at Eva's drawing. "That's really good."

"Thank you." Eva sets down the pen and hands the napkin to Mom, who in turn passes it to Gai.

The house is pretty, with a swing that's a lot like the one they have on their own front porch. What surprises him is the hairy, long- bearded dude sitting on it. "Who's the Sasquatch?"

"This is my Malachy," Eva says, using the name she's called _him_ all night. Her smile is kind of sad as she lays a hand on the dude's cheek. _He,_ in turn, kisses the hand and pulls it into his lap without looking away from her.

A swell of loneliness, for when Dad used to do stuff like that with Mom, fills Gai's chest. He glances at Mom and shares the pain in her eyes, so he knows she's thinking the same thing before she blinks it away.

The coffee gives a final burble. Gai hops up and, bypassing their family mugs for the generic ones, pours it for the three grownups. When he brings them to the table, the dude thanks him, then grabs one and slides it toward Eva with the sugar, not even waiting to see if Mom wants it. Like he already knows she doesn't like her regular coffee sweet.

Mom finishes with the cream and pushes it toward the Logan dude. When he takes it without glancing her way or saying 'thank you', Gai remembers something he learned listening to his parents talking about a case. That Mom figured out these two people were working together when one handed the other a bottled water and they didn't acknowledge it. She said it takes a very close relationship to drop manners like that.

A close relationship like one that involves sex. Sex and a closed door with low laughter coming through it. The kind of laughter that used to make him feel safe at night when he was little and he didn't know what it all meant. And even after he did. Before it all went away

"Yeah," he leans forward. Anything to push away the thoughts coming to his mind. "So what's it like coming back? Is it like when Odysseus returned to Ithaca? Like how everyone was waiting to kill him?"

"You've read the Odyssey?" The dude's eyebrows go up in surprise, ignoring the little jab Gai stuck in there.

"Not yet." The edge of the tablecloth brushes against Gai's leg and he grips it between his fingers to roll the hem. His foot brushes against Keller, who's sitting at his mom's feet. "I saw the old Kirk Douglas movie and talked to my teacher about the books. He said it'd be better if I waited a couple years."

"Have you ever heard that man dates a new era in his life from reading a book?"

"No." Gai runs the words through his mind. They make a kind of sense he doesn't totally get.

"The Iliad and Odyssey are definitely new era books. I'll find some copies of them for you to hold onto. You'll know when you're ready."

 _Find some copies_. The words sit in his head.

"So, what _is_ it like, coming back?" Mom asks _._

The dude looks at Mom again and this time there's something different there. It goes on too long and gives Gai a floppy feeling in his stomach, like he just got on an elevator.

"Well, it's not like Odysseus. More like Rip Van Winkle." _He_ wings an eyebrow at Gai. "You know that story?"

"Duh," he bristles. "Doesn't everybody? The old guy that went up the hill, took a nap, and didn't wake up for twenty years."

 _Find some copies._ Gai works the phrase around his brain.

"Exactly. See, with Odysseus, his absence informed everyone else's choices. They centered their lives on whether or not they believed he'd come back. But with Rip, he stumbled down the hill and found out life moved on without him."

 _Find some copies. For you._ Which means the dude thinks this is the beginning? That there'll be, what? More dinners? More conversations about books? More of Mom smiling like he means something to their lives?

The tablecloth is thick; the woven threads rub Gai's fingers in a way that's good, centering. Like he can say what he really wants to and not have the earth fall apart under him. Everything else in the room fades—it's just him, the tablecloth, and this _asshole_ that doesn't belong here. "Isn't that supposed to be how it works? I mean, look at Stuart Sutcliffe."

"Who?"

Gai shakes his head, his breath coming in shallow pants now. "C'mon. The fifth Beatle? He was there at the beginning, even helped come up with the name. But he left and the Beatles went on to make history."

The Logan dude _asshole_ leans forward, rolling his coffee cup between his hands. "What about him?"

"Died, not long after he left the band. And sixty years later guys like you are asking 'Who's Stuart Sutcliffe'."

"You're saying he wasn't important."

"I don't know." Gai's jaw tightens as his eyes start to burn. "I'm saying he probably _thought_ he was important. Then he left, they did just fine without him, and now nobody cares."

The dude sits there with his mouth hanging open again like he's some fucking imbecile and Gai hates him for it. He hates him for showing up after so long. For breathing and sitting at the table even goddamn existing while Dad's in some ugly ceramic container, his body a bunch of ash and bone.

"Gai," Mom whispers, and that's when Gai sees it's not just _him_ staring. It's Mom and Eva and they're all making him feel like he's done something wrong when he just said the truth.

"Whatever. You know what? I'm tired. I'm going to bed." He stands up and throws his napkin down on the table. "Good luck in, like, Chile, or wherever."

Hot tears build up and he makes it to the hallway before they fall. Behind him he can hear his mom and the mouth-breather talking: _What just happened? He's twelve, Logan, and he's been through a lot. The counselor said these kinds of mood swings are normal-._

He slams the door to cut them off, puts on his headphones and queues up _Helter Skelter._ Over the music he can't hear anything from the kitchen. Shadows of feet show someone outside his door but if there's a knock or someone talks, he can't hear that, either.

Gai pulls the pillow over his head so he won't have to know how long they wait. And there, in the cocoon of muffled music, with the world blocked out and the pillow under his head getting wet, he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Huge thank you to nevertothethird who is ever-consistent in guiding me through the quagmire I've created for myself. Your humor and friendship are my life raft when this story drags me down. Your rally-cry when I needed it most is this only reason this is even getting posted today.
> 
> A/N: And once again, ghostcat, thank you for filing in the sketch I created, and bringing Eva to life. I love when you call out the bits of my own culture that have slipped through and absolutely don't belong. Your dedication to this character, and time you've taken out of your own busy life to help me with her, have made all the difference.
> 
> A/N: To thehivemind (you know who you are), all of your suggestions were brilliant and I hope you like how they came out here. It turns out Gai referring to Logan as 'the dude' and 'he' were exactly what was needed to make those moments work.
> 
> A/N: Lastly, thank you all for hanging in there with me. Your comments, kudos, follows and favorites encourage me more than you know, because they remind me to get off my tukus and WRITE, because this story ain't going to tell its own damn self.


	17. Fly on Past the Speed of Sound

_Previously: Veronica, unsatisfied with the conclusions drawn in her husband's murder and the perp's guilty plea, decided to conduct her own investigation. Through Leo she acquired a copy of the police file and went through it in detail. Meanwhile, Logan spent his days taking Eva to old haunts and having a tenuous reconciliation with Dick. The dinner with Gai finally happened, and ended with Gai making it clear he has no interest in a relationship with Logan._

 

_Saturday 7:00pm_

**Logan**

Once they reach the hotel Logan follows Eva to the elevator and down the hall to their room. She takes him to the balcony, pushes him to lie on a lounge chair, and curls into his side-their usual positions in the hammock at home. The night air is cool; a relief to his overheated skin.

When an owl hoots in some distant tree Logan realizes neither of them have said a word since leaving Veronica's. Or, if Eva had, he didn't hear her through the cacophony of thoughts in his head.

"Jesus, Eva. He hates me."

She shakes her head and whispers, "Gaius does not know you."

"C'mon. Did you see his face?"

"Tonight he is angry, and even before dinner he looks so tired. He needs to cry and sleep. Tomorrow life will look different."

The constellations above are different and muted by light and pollution, nothing like on the ship or at their home. It's a reminder he's out of place here-as if Gai hadn't made that clear enough tonight. "I thought we were getting along. I didn't expect that, you know? To _like_ him. Then, bam! He's looking at me like I'm… hell, like I'm _my_ dad."

"Malachy, shhh."

"I can't." Logan shifts in agitation, making Eva move to accommodate his restlessness on the narrow chair. He strokes her hair in apology. "He's so real to me now. It all keeps running through my head - what we should have done different. If there's a way to fix it. I feel so fucking useless."

"Give him time. Right now he is so scared."

"Scared of what?"

"His life has changed so much and now it is changing again. That is frightening."

"Except nothing's changing. He's not letting it, and neither is Veronica. I mean, did you see that house? It's like Sam still lives there."

"Yes," she whispers. "I see everything."

Everything inside is dammed up, too much to separate out and allow himself to feel. Instead of words Eva offers the quiet comfort of herself - the weight of her head on his chest, her hand warm against the band of exposed waist where his shirt rode up. When he moves to brush the hair from her cheek, he finds them wet with the tears he can't cry himself.

* * *

_Sunday 6:15am_

**Veronica**

Waking without the memory of a dream unsettles Veronica. She hates them, and hates even more how she's come to count on them.

It's is her own stupid fault since the dreams are just her subconscious breaking through, so she shouldn't be mad at Sam. Except she is because, in fact or fantasy, he's still not there _._

With nothing ahead of her for the day, she cleans up the dishes from dinner. Eva's drawing is still on the table, crumbled from where Gai gripped it. Sighing, she shoves it into a drawer on the sideboard.

The Logan she saw last night was so familiar, yet not. She'd seen him in love before-twice. With Lilly it was all drama, laughter, and heavy make outs. When she and Logan were together he was sweet, but there was also a tentativeness to him, like he wasn't always sure where to put his feet. And who could blame him? Every time they got close she pushed him away or something happened to tear them apart.

With Eva he's on solid ground, his every touch returned with equal affection. Even sitting catty-corner at the table their ankles were linked-a sight she caught when she bent down to check on Keller asleep at her feet.

Veronica wants to be happy for him. She _is_ happy for him. Just because she lost Sam, and Gai lost the father who raised him, doesn't mean Logan should be miserable in penance. He's lost out, too.

Yet later, when her entreaties to get Gai to talk are met with shrugs, she also resents Logan. He's got Eva to hold him through the tough times and she's alone. Again.

_10:40am_

Keller's bark wakes Veronica from her impromptu nap on the couch. Hoping it's not Logan at the door-Gai is _not_ willing to sign off on that-she turns off the TV and looks through the peephole to see her father standing on the porch. He's holding paper cups with the distinctive Dark Horse logo and a white paper bag.

A sour chuckle works its way from her chest. In any other circumstances her dad's presence would be more than welcome, but right now he heads the 'Least Likely to be Happy Logan's Made a Reappearance' list.

She reminds herself to wheedle a scone out of him prior to dropping the Logan bomb, then opens the door. "Looky here, I always knew my white knight would someday come with a Dark Horse."

Keith Mars grins and places a cup of coffee in her hand before kissing her cheek. "What am I rescuing you from this time?"

"Being under caffeinated. I was actually taking a nap, which makes two days in a row. I don't think I've done that since I was five."

"Three-and-a-half. Remember how gleeful I was when Gai outgrew his naps at the same age? Payback, honey, is the best part of being a grandparent."

The smile on her face likely looks as forced as it feels. Her dad glances over her shoulder and frowns. "Is there a reason you're not inviting me in?"

"It's a nice day. I was thinking we could just sit out here," she says and gestures to the porch swing by the door.

Her dad nods and backs over to the swing, albeit wearing an expression that tells her he knows something is up. When Veronica snaps her fingers, Keller comes outside and lays down with her chin over the top step, her lone ear twitching.

"How was Arizona, Pops? You get your skip-trace?" The coffee is liquid heaven and in the bag are a decadent six scones, though her dad only ever eats one. Veronica roots out her favorite—blueberry-and digs in.

"I brought a hot chocolate for Gai, too."

"It'll keep. Tell me about your trip."

She knows she isn't fooling him and has no intention of even trying. But she also knows the front porch is the only place where Gai can't accidentally overhear her father's reaction to her news. Unless there's yelling, of course.

"Routine. I tracked him down, figured out where he's living and working. When I emailed photos to the D.A.'s office they sent a black and white to pick him up."

She smiles at that. "I'm glad you didn't try and collar him yourself. I worry about you."

"Yeah, ya do." He digs his own scone out of the bag and points it at her. "I worry about you, too. Especially since you're sitting there with a splint on your trigger finger and you won't talk where Gai can't hear us. I know you were on that ship with all the dead feds and add in you've been dodging my calls this week—"

"I have not!"

Her dad never mastered the art of cocking one eyebrow, but no matter. The tight set to his mouth and little sigh are pointed enough. "Veronica, what happened?"

"Well," she takes another sip of delicious, bracing coffee. Instead of looking at her dad she fixates on the back of Keller's head. "What would you say if I told you I used work as an excuse to go to South America and look for Logan?"

"Logan?" He throws the scone back in the bag and stares at her. "Logan _Echolls?"_

"That's the one."

"And that," his voice turns harder, accusing, "has something to do with you wearing a splint on your finger and not letting me in the house?"

"Dad, can we just talk?"

He waves his hand to indicate she should explain, then crosses his arms like he's bracing for the worst.

"I went to Paraguay, because the last sign of Logan was a credit card charge there thirteen years ago…" Through her years at the FBI Veronica's gotten good at giving an outline of her work and letting her dad and Sam fill in the blanks. This time, though, is the exception. If anyone can be trusted with state secrets it's Keith Mars, and all to the better if it helps him forgive Logan.

Her description of the events on the ship brings out the age her dad hides so well under that congenial smile. By the time she's described the bombs, Logan's showdown with Petturi, and her wrestling match with Vincente, he's gone whiter than the honeysuckle blooms at the far end of the porch.

"… so," she sums up. "Logan saved the day, my life, and the lives of several other Feds. I told him he had a son, brought him here, and introduced him to Gai. Now my kid is fifteen flavors of not happy."

"Neither am I. Not to belittle what Logan did on the ship, but have you really thought about this? Just because he pulls the occasional hero act doesn't mean he's a good person to have in your life."

"In Gai's life, and yes, I've thought about it."

"Honey, I'm worried." He rises to stand in front of her, arms again crossed and looming over her like he did when she was five. "You always had a blind spot when it came to Logan but I hoped you'd outgrown it."

"I don't have a blind spot; he's Gai's father. He gave up everything to keep me safe—"

"I don't care what he did on the ship—"

"I'm not talking about the ship." She readies herself for the hardest part of this truth-telling session. "Dad, he left Neptune because of me. Because he knew if anything happened to him I'd go balls to the wall to make someone pay."

"Pay for what?" He scoffs. "Were you going to go after every bartender that overserved him? You've been to Al-Anon. The only one who was out to hurt Logan was himself."

Of course that's what her dad would focus on, given Logan's drunken state the last time he saw him, in Spain. The weight of a secret she's held onto for so many years presses her back down to the swing. "That and a Russian mobster he pissed off on my behalf."

Keith closes his eyes and rubs his bald head, readying himself for more bad news. "What?"

"Well," she says, careful to look at over his left ear. "Did I ever tell you I inadvertently made a sex tape freshman year of college?"

Even without looking at him directly the pierce of his stare is evident. "Remember that breakout story about the secret society at Hearst? The Castle? Freshman year they were trying to recruit Wallace. Unbeknownst to me and Piz, the Castle put a hidden camera in their dorm room. Piz and I were dating and, while we came shy of actually doing the deed, the video still went viral. At least on campus."

"Veronica—"

"Don't," she begs. "Dad, please don't talk or I won't get through any of it."

"Okay," he whispers as he moves to sit beside her.

"Anyway, I made it my mission to take down the Castle. I went Vengeful Veronica and tracked down Jake Kane's hard drive that had a list of all their members since inception, including the dirty little secrets that were their price of admission. The one who released the tape of me and Piz was Jake's star recruiter, Gorya Sorokin, heir apparent to a nasty little branch of the Russian mob."

Whether because he's busy connecting the dots from the hard drive to his own downfall as sheriff, or because she asked him not to talk, her dad's quiet while she takes another sip of her coffee. "I had a confrontation with Gory. Logan overheard it and figured out Gory was the one who made the tape. I warned him, but he didn't care. Logan beat Gory-severely."

"Good."

"I recently found out that Gory put a hit out on Logan the next day. Someone tipped off Logan, which is why he left and did it in a way I wouldn't follow him. He didn't care about himself, Dad." She chances looking at her father, who's gone from mad to worried, based on the elevation of his forehead wrinkles. "Logan worried I'd get hurt, too, or that if something happened to him I'd go after Gory."

Keith doesn't say anything and Veronica's glad because so far she's done a good job of not crying. One iota of sympathy might change that. "He jumped around Europe because he was trying to stay ahead of Gory. Of course he was too drunk to do a good job of it. When he sobered up he bought a new identity and went into hiding. Flash forward to now: Logan's eleven years sober and safe, since we just found out Gory's dead."

Keith shifts so he's sitting parallel to her. His feet rock so the swing sways back and forth while he studies the hands he's clasped between his knees. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"About the sex tape? I was embarrassed. You still thought of me as your little girl."

"That one got blown out the water when you told me you were pregnant, kiddo."

"By Logan. After a tape of 'getting familiar' with Piz."

"This is on the internet?"

"Mac," she pets Keller, who's come over for attention, "killed it as best she could. The bureau also has it on a list of items they make sure never see the light of day. They're protective of their agents."

_And may I never again have to discuss my porn history with either my boss or my father._

They rock and sip their coffee. The signs of a Keith Mars thinkfest are all there so she excuses herself to the bathroom to leave him alone. Her father and son are like bookends at each end of the house, neither wanting her attention.

But someone does. Her phone shows a lone text from Logan.

_**11:32am Forecast? What can I do?** _

Of all the people she has time to worry about now, Logan's at the bottom of her short list. Instead of calling she texts back:

_**11:44 am Gai's still upset. Sorry it didn't go well. Keep in touch and I'll let you know if anything changes.** _

Her fingers hesitate over SEND, but she has nothing else to offer him right now.

When she gets back to the porch she sits close enough to Keith that their shoulders touch. "Dad, Gai's having a hard time with it all and he's closing me out. Will you go talk to him?"

He puts his arm across her back and pulls her close. "What do you want me to say?"

"Oh, you know," she settles her head on his shoulder and sighs at the security she finds in the sandalwood and Dad scent. "What you always say."

He lays a kiss on top of her head and murmurs, "Veronica, honey, it'll be okay."

"Yeah," she laughs, though it comes out as more of a sob. "Just like that."

* * *

_11:30 am_

**Logan**

An outside breeze wafts the lined curtain and lets in a block of sunlight, wakening Logan. Last night floods back to him-the dark circles under Veronica's eyes. That house, everything still in place for Sam to come home including the damn dog. And Gai. Jesus, Gai. How, at the end, his every word, movement, and expression was rife with sadness and anger.

Eva become quiet when they were on the balcony and, during their lovemaking afterward, she clung to him like she never wanted to let go. While the thought should comfort him, in its place is a deep unease.

Logan runs a hand over Eva's side of the bed and, finding it empty, squints into the brightness, catching glimpses of his surroundings with each moving shaft of light.

The hotel room is upscale, with a gray leather couch and large flat screen attached to the wall. The bed is a mess, comforter half on the floor and pillows scattered. Eva's clothes hang neatly in the closet while his are spread around the room, evidence of his indecision over what to wear last night.

His heartbeat goes erratic when he realizes a suitcase is missing. Not just _a_ suitcase, but the one Eva brought from Chile.

"Eva?" he calls out, worried she's gone. That what happened last night was too much, and she's left him to his fucked up little world and its problems. "Eva!"

"I am outside," she calls.

The patio. Which explains why the door is open.

_Have a little faith, dude._

Logan flips on the light and checks the cell phone placed next to the bed. Nothing. He shoots off a quick text to Veronica, throws on his boxers and, while using the bathroom, notes the missing suitcase on the counter. Right where he left it yesterday afternoon, during a frantic search for all his toiletry items.

Before heading outside, he grabs drinks from the mini fridge. When the breeze blows the curtain in again, accompanied by the blinding sunlight, he also grabs his sunglasses.

Eva's knees are drawn up as she sits on the far lounge chair in the orange t-shirt that's now become a morning staple, her sketch pad against her thighs as she draws. She accepts his cheek-kiss and he notes she's been working on a practice page, the same flower over and over. A sure sign of heavy thinking.

"I think you may never wake up," she says.

"You could have woken me."

"No, not when you are finally sleeping. All night you talk and move."

Logan, chastened, rubs the short hairs on the back of his neck where it feels good against the grain. "I didn't realize-did you get any sleep at all?"

"Un poquito. Do you hear from Veronica?" She indicates the phone in his hand.

"I just texted her. Waiting to hear back."

Eva chooses the mineral water from the beverages he offers. Her flushed cheeks and bit of sweat on her brow lays tell to how hot it is despite the breeze and Logan stretches on his own chair in the sun, hoping it will thaw the ice-ball in his gut.

Drinking deeply from the can of pineapple juice, he listens to Eva's pencil run over the paper. It's the sound of many lazy afternoons and he rides it for the small comfort offered.

When the phone at his hip chimes he picks it up, then tosses it back down. In answer to Eva's questioning glance, he tells her, "Nothing's changed. Veronica told me to keep in touch." Then, more rancorous, "I guess sleep didn't change his mind."

"I am sorry."

Logan shrugs and drinks his juice, hoping the acidity will dissipate the thickness in his throat.

"Malachy, we must talk."

_Don't say it._

"Malachy," she repeats.

He sighs. "What?"

Eva's voice is thick, melancholic. "Tomorrow is Sunday."

Sunday. When she puts flowers on her sons' graves regardless of weather, illness, or inconvenience, like the postmistress of morbid. She's never missed two in a row.

"Elisa needs me back at the market, to sell paintings. Además, Tuesday it will be fourteen years since Eduardo and the boys have died. Cada aniversario Padre Tomas says a mass for them and I must be there, which means—"

"You want to leave today." It makes sense. Eva's got work and personal obligations while he, based on Veronica's text, has none.

She sits up and looks at him with regret in her eyes. "I _must_ leave. There is a flight tonight."

"What time is takeoff?"

"Six o'clock, from Los Angeles."

"Are you sure there's room?"

"Ya compre el pasaje." _(I've bought the ticket.)_ "The car is coming at two o'clock."

"Then that's that." Logan forces himself to stand up and go back inside the room, to the closet. He throws his shades on the bed, the room too dark after the sunlight.

The hanger confounds his fingers and he's unable to remove the shirt hanging there so he can pack it. When Eva's arms wind around his waist he gives up. "Fuck."

"Malachy-" Her chest presses against his back.

"I feel like shit about last night."

"Lo sé." _(I know.)_

"He obviously wants nothing to do with me."

"Sí."

"And I have to respect that, right? I mean, he's not a little kid."

"Pero he _is_ a child and children can be," she pauses, "caprichoso?"

"Capricious."

"Sí."

Logan sighs and turns around, staying within the circle of her arms. "I don't know what to do."

"You will stay and try again."

His heart, so heavy, lightens a fraction. "Do you think—would you mind? I mean, I know I'm usually at the mass with you and-"

"Asapado," Eva sniffs. "Es tu hijo. Claro que tienes que quedarte." _(He is your son. Of course you can't leave.)_ "This is why I buy only one ticket, for me."

"You did?"

"Yes."

She looks so dejected, her face full of remorse, Logan pulls her against him. Her breath is shallow, stuttered against his neck and he wishes for the words to make it okay but, damn it, it's not okay. They're supposed to be done with separations. "Hey, I'll be home soon."

She lifts her head and cups his cheeks in her hands. "Malachy, this is your home."

"You know what I mean."

"Sí, and I know more than you think. Last night, Gaius is so upset. I look at you and it is in your face. You love him."

"Yeah. He's my kid. Kind of comes with the package."

"Okay, then tell me. Can you live _eight thousand_ kilometers away from your son?"

The truth is already in his bones, in the skin that doesn't fit when he thinks of being so far away from Gai. "I," he releases a lungful of air and clasps his hands at the back of his head. "Dammit."

"Yo comprendo."

"Do you? I'm not sure I understood until right now."

"Once I had children, too."

"I know." Logan catches her hand as it brushes over his cheek and kisses her palm, grateful for her understanding. "You're right, I'd go crazy that far away. I want—no, I _have_ to be here. I mean, what if something happens to him? If he needs, I don't know, a blood transfusion or a heart transplant or—"

"O su papa?" _(Or a father?)_

"Yeah," he shares a sardonic smile with her at his tendency toward the dramatic. "Or that."

Eva's voice softens. "You do not need excuses, cariño; it is not only Gaius. Your friends and your family están aquí. There are so many reasons to stay."

"If it wasn't for Gai I wouldn't even consider it." He studies her, looking for any sign of uncertainty. "Eva, are you sure? I mean, I know it's asking a lot, for you to move here—"

"Yo no, Malachy. It is time for _you_ to be here, and for me to go home."

"Wait, what?" Logan catches his breath and holds it until he can make sense of her words. "So, I'm here, you go back to La Culpa and, what? We see each other once a month? I thought we were done with that."

"No, then you are always leaving me, and leaving Gaius."

"You act like that's even a factor."

"It can never be a factor if you are always leaving him."

"Which means we're down to one option. _We're_ ," still grasping her hands, he motions between them, "moving here."

"My home is in Antofagasta."

"That was a choice you made. You can make a different one."

Eva's eyes plead with him to understand. "Malachy, I have tried, but I do not like California."

"As a tourist. It's different when you live here. You'd see."

She shakes her head. "Is it different for everyone who looks like me? The ones doing the cleaning and moving the lawns? The ones fighting your 09ers? Or only those with money?"

Logan brushes a lock of hair off her cheek and wonders what Eva's seen this week that escaped his attention. "C'mon. Chile's got its own fucked up class system, you know. It's not like having a European last name has done you any favors."

"Chile, I understand. I do not want to learn new rules."

"So," Logan lets go of her hand and takes a step backward, trying to sort out what's happening. "Instead you're forcing me to choose between you and my kid? That's not fair."

"I am not asking you to choose between me and Gaius."

"It sure as hell feels like it."

"No. If I stay, I will resent you for making me leave my home. If you come to Chile you will resent me because you are not here, with your son. Nothing is fair, it is not choices. There is only," she shrugs and swipes at a stray tear on her cheek, "la vida."

Logan shakes his head, finally understanding. "Eva," he avows, "I won't let you break us up. That's not a solution."

"It is the only solution." Her voice is calm. Too reasonable for his liking. "We both agreed we cannot live with halfway, ¿recuerdas?"

He grasps her shoulders and pulls her close. "Goddammit, no. I love you. There's got to be a way to work it out."

"Logan," she says, her voice cracked with emotion. "Por favor. Es hora que aprendas cuándo soltar de las cosas." _(Please, stop. It is time you learn when to let go.)_

Maybe it's the use of his given name, or the gentle admonishment of what holding onto the memory of Veronica all those years cost them. But suddenly Logan is scared. "You can't mean to just _leave_. Not after nine years, after everything we've been through."

"Come," she says, and pulls him to sit facing her on the bed. "Last night, at this dinner, I am realizing many things. That you are no longer the sad, quiet, lonely man I met. And I am not the woman with a broken heart, who every day thinks of swimming so far in the ocean I cannot come back."

Logan draws in a breath. It finally makes sense why Eva, who could've done so much more, accepted a job as a housekeeper. In a beachfront shack, where the owner was gone more than he was home. "Eva—"

"Shhh," she says. Her fingers trace the destiny line in his hand, the one that intersects with his heart line, just like hers. "Losing my children, me destroso. But then we met, and you needed me-to make you a home, to take care of you. You gave me purpose. Focus."

 _When we need each other, we find each other_. Their oft-repeated mantra goes through his head, though he understands her side of it more than ever. He brushes a thumb over the back of her hand. "And now?"

"Now I have many purposes. My work, my friends. Mis padres, who are so old now I cannot live this far away."

The sting of bitterness hits the back of his eyes, and Logan hates that he's close to crying. "I guess it doesn't matter that _I_ still need _you_."

It shouldn't surprise him. He hadn't been enough to hold onto Lilly, or his mom. Even Veronica had one foot out the door most of the time they were together. It was his own stupid fault for letting nine years of Eva's love lull him into complacency.

"Malachy." Her chin quivers as she shifts her stare up to the ceiling. "Do you think I am not hurting, too?"

"Then don't do it. We can work it out."

"How? Tell me the plan."

Logan can read his own pain reflected in her eyes. His mind goes on a manic spiral, unable to resolve the challenge Eva's presented to him. Not without untenable sacrifices from one or both of them. He pushes her away so he can stand up and move around, to think. "I—fuck, Eva. I don't know right now. We'll figure it out."

"Some things cannot be figured out. We need each other, sí. But you need to be a father more, and you cannot do that in Chile."

He wants to argue with her, to go over the probability that Gai may never let him in, regardless where he calls home. Yet something in Eva's tone makes him stop and consider her words a little closer.

"Hold up." Logan places his hands on the bed, aside her hips, forcing Eva to fall back on her elbows, her face inches from his. "How much of this has to do with some stupid reason like you not being able to have kids?"

Her expression hardens and Logan intuits he's stumbled onto a larger truth. Eva pushes him away so she can stand with only her back facing him. "I will not have this fight with you."

Anger infuses his veins. "The one where I call you on your bullshit?"

"No. The one where you tear up all my reasons like they are on a piece of paper."

"I don't give a damn about having more kids."

She shakes her head, turning around. "Today you do not. Mañana… ?"

"Now you have a crystal ball to go with the palm reading?"

"Escúchame! You are so young—"

He shakes his head. "I'm a grown man. Don't talk to me like a fucking child."

Eva points a finger and accuses, "You are thinking like a child."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Always it is-you learn this with your drinking friends. Only today? For only one day?"

"One day at a time," Logan corrects, bitter because she's right. He came to realize this himself recently on the ship, when he took stock of his life in comparison to Veronica's.

"Eso es, one day at a time."

"It's hard to plan ahead when you might have to take off any minute."

"No one is chasing you nunca más."

Somehow, Eva asking him to be a grownup brings out the child in Logan. He grabs the jeans and shirt he'd thrown on the floor the night before, and a keycard from the dresser. "No. No one's chasing me. You're just running away. Let me return the favor."

"Malachy—"

He slams the door to cut her off. Logan glares down an older couple and their censorious looks as he dresses during his walk down the hallway, toward the elevator. His bare feet rub against the commercial-grade carpet with every step, so a shock runs through his fingers when he touches the elevator button.

"Fuck," he growls and over-shakes his hand to dispel the pain. When the doors open he steps into the empty cart and is given a five-floor musak treat of "If You Leave Me Now", because Karma is a bitch and she hates him that much.

* * *

_12:20pm_

**Gai**

It's only when he's halfway up the driveway that Gai hears Fish's drums. The soundproofing her mom put up in the garage after the neighbors complained does its job as long as Fish keeps the door closed. Which her mom makes her do even when it's daytime.

He uses the side gate to get to the garage-a hot, dank space dimly lit by the red glow of Chinese lanterns along the ceiling. Gai's dad nicknamed it 'The Hellpit'. Fish is so into her solo, her eyes closed and arms whipping around, she doesn't notice him come in, which is okay; their band practice isn't scheduled for another ten minutes.

Fish isn't playing any certain song-as far as Gai can tell she's just riffing, gliding around in her own head like she does sometimes. It happens when he's tooling around with his sax, too. The music comes out of him and when it's over he can't remember half of what he's played. Mom says it's the loudest form of meditation she's ever seen.

Not today, though. His head's too crammed to give him room to move around.

Piggybacking on Fish's private jam session, Gai settles into a corner. The steady beat fills his mind and pushes away everything else: the way his mom's eyes beg every time she looks at him, Grandpa Keith and that sad smile he gets when he's trying to pretend things are okay. Especially the look on the Logan dude's face last night.

And the sick sensation in his gut ever since.

Time slides away while Fish pounds on her kit. Until Mike throws open the door, lifts his bass case over his head, and announces, "Dunati is in the house!"

One of Fish's drumsticks goes flying and nails Mike in the head. "I told you, don't do that! Idiot!"

"Hey, your aim's getting better," Mike praises Fish, ignoring the glare she throws in his direction as he moves to unpack his guitar.

"You're such a-Gai? When did you get here?"

Gai unfolds himself and stands up. "A few minutes ago. I didn't want to interrupt your _In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida_ moment."

"'Cause you're not a jerk," Fish glowers at Mike again while he moves to settle onto a stool. "Anybody want a water? And by anybody I mean Gai."

"Sure, thanks," Gai answers, grinning despite his lousy mood. With sweat and humidity frizzing out her hair, Fish looks like a homely, pissed-off version of the girl in _Brave_ -something he knows better than to tell her. When she goes in the house he cuffs Mike on the arm. "Man, why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

Before Gai can answer Fish comes back with three waters and hands one to each of them. Mike takes his without even looking at her or saying 'thanks', reminding Gai of the thing with the coffee at dinner the night before-about people who're close not using manners.

Resting his bass between his knees Mike asks, "How was dinner with your dad?"

Gai starts, surprised. It's not like he wasn't going to tell Mike but he didn't expect that Fish already did. She was usually better at keeping secrets.

"Better than usual," Fish answers, a beat later.

Realizing Mike had been talking to Fish, Gai drops his shoulder and nods at her to continue.

"Um, I just meant this time he at least called instead of just not showing up."

Gai rolls his eyes. Fish's dad is such a dickhead. "He bailed again?"

Fish shrugs. "Yeah, whatever. I don't even care anymore." She crosses her arms and lifts her chin in his direction, her voice cautious. "So, how'd it go with Mr. Big Stuff?"

Gai looks between his two friends-Mike, barely paying attention to what's going on and Fish, staring at him intently-and decides he needs more friends like Mike. "Fine. Did you guys pick songs for today?"

"I don't care. I'll play whatever you guys want," Mike answers.

Already not in a great mood, Mike's lazy attitude irritates Gai more than it should; he knows Mike doesn't really care about music like he and Fish do.

"Being in the band means _being in the band_. Get off your ass and contribute once in a while, will you?"

Mike frowns. "What's your problem?"

He drops a shoulder in contrition and mutters, "Sorry."

"Just tell him, Gai," Fish says.

"Tell me what?"

His friends stare at him, Mike confused and Fish glaring, letting him know she won't put up with him being a jerk.

"Fine," he sighs. "Mike, those people at my house last night? The guy's my bio dad and the lady is his girlfriend. My mom thought it was time we met."

"Really?" Mike asks. When Gai nods, Mike shrugs and says, "Huh."

"Well? Did you tell him off like you wanted to?" Fish asks.

Now Mike's looking at him, too, and Gai wishes he hadn't told them. Or that none of it was true. "Yeah."

Fish's eyes, already too big for her too-long, chinless face, bug out. "Really?"

"Yeah. I told you I was going to."

"Sure, I just didn't think you'd actually do it. What'd you say?"

"That he didn't matter and he should just go back where he came from."

Mike looks between them, confused. "Why? He's, like, your dad, right?"

"No," Gai says. "My dad's my dad. My real dad, I mean."

"Then what's the other guy?"

"Nobody," Gai snaps, meaning it. "Just some guy my mom knew a million years ago."

"I don't get it."

Fish scoffs, exasperated. "God, Mike, it was Gai's _biological_ dad that came to dinner last night. He and Veronica used to date." When Mike still looks confused, she rolls her eyes. "They used to have _sex?_ It was _his sperm_ that made Veronica pregnant?"

Gai covers his ears, "Ew, can we _not_ talk about sperm and my mom?"

"Grow up." Fish crosses her arms.

"I get _that._ " Mike rolls his eyes. "I meant—"

Fish interrupts. "So that's it? You're never gonna see him again?"

"Nope."

"That's what I'm asking," Mike says. "If—what's his name?"

"Log-," Gai starts, then stops himself, surprised that it's still hard to say out loud. "Logan Echolls."

"Wait," Mike cocks his head, thinking. "So, if things were different you'd be Gai Echolls? That sounds kind of all right."

Gai punches him in the shoulder. Hard. "Don't call me that."

"'kay. But why tell him off? And is it just him? Or is there grandparents and stuff, too? Think about Christmas, man. You could get twice as many presents."

Gai punches Mike again, making Fish laugh. "Gai, stop. Tell him the whole thing."

Fish's phone chimes with a text and, when she checks it, she rolls her eyes. "Deadbeat Dave wants to reschedule dinner. Again."

While she taps out an answer Mike tunes his guitar, badly. Every time he fiddles with the pegs it sounds worse. Gai knows Mike likes the pose, though, leaning over the bass with his head cocked as if he can find any note by sound.

"Mike," he rolls his eyes and grabs the electronic tuner that's sitting in the guitar case, sorely unused. "It doesn't matter how cool you look if you sound like crap."

"You do it then," Mike shrugs and turns over his guitar and the stool to Gai.

"Sorry, where were we?" Fish asks, tucking her phone in her pocket.

Gai hooks up the tuner and twists the pegs trying to get the first string anywhere close to an, E. "Talking about how Mike needs to learn how to tune his own damn guitar."

Mike shakes his head, a confused look on his face. "No, you were going to tell me about the grandparents."

"No, I wasn't."

"But they're your family, right?"

Gai leans over the bass, focuses on his tuning, and ignores the way his friends are watching at him. He knows Mike's not trying to be pushy-he's just a little stupid sometimes. Worse is that this is usually when Fish tells him to shut up and she's not doing it.

"They're dead," he gets out. "The Logan dude's parents. They died before I was even born."

Even without looking up he can feel the way the mood in the room has dropped. Which is okay because he wants to say it and make it heard. To understand why and how it has anything to do with him. Or if it does. The whole thing's like from a bad movie, one Aaron and Lynn Echolls probably starred in.

"The mom, she killed herself—jumped off a bridge. And the dad was murdered a couple years later."

"No way, someone murdered your grandpa? For real?" Mike whispers.

"Don't call him that." Gai looks up from fiddling with the D string. "He was fucking psycho. Killed my mom's best friend and tried to kill my mom, too, but he was some bullshit movie star so they let him off. Then someone shot him."

"Wait," Mike closes his eyes and scrunches up his face like he always does when he's thinking hard. "Bruh, Gai, your grandpa—"

"Mike, don't call him that," Fish reminds him.

"Sorry. My dad loves this movie, _Broken Point_ , I think. It's got a sequel, too, but it's not as good. I think the main guy in it was named Adam Echolls, or something like that. I'm sure it was Echolls."

"Aaron Echolls?"

"Yeah, that's it."

Fish looks at Gai, her chin high. "It's called _Breaking Point,_ not _Broken Point._ "

Gai had intentionally kept himself from researching anything about Logan Echolls or his parents. He hadn't thought that Mike or Fish would already know stuff he didn't, but of course Fish looked up stuff. She was like that.

"Did you see it?" he asks Mike.

"It's rated 'R'." Mike says. "Explosions and sex and violence. All the good stuff my mom doesn't let me watch."

"So you've seen it," Fish says.

"Only like a six times. My dad watches it whenever my mom's out of town."

 _Morbid curiosity_. Gai read the term once in a book and didn't really understand what it meant; now he thinks may be he knows. He hands the tuned guitar to Mike.

"Did you mean it, that you didn't want to see your- Logan again?" Mike asks.

"Can we not talk about it?"

Mike shrugs, always okay with whatever Gai or Fish want. Fish, though, narrows her eyes and studies him before she scoops up her drumsticks. Which means she won't let it go forever. "Fine. 'Baker Street' for warm up?"

* * *

 _1:00pm_ **  
**

**Veronica**

A symphonious pop beat pours from the computer speakers. Veronica tunes it out as she plugs away at the background checks for all the employees of the law firm. So far she's had three candidates for the 'maybe' list. All have ten thousand or more in debt, limited career prospects, and access to the reservoir of closed files.

Until she gets to Brent Caster; unmarried, flunked the bar three times, works through a temp agency as a legal assistant. He's had five assignments in the past year at Shelley, Barnett, Rublin and Sanchez. With twenty-two thousand dollars of debt, past due notices on all his credit cards and facing a car-repossession there's no 'maybe' here. This is her guy.

Her fingers fly over the phone keypad and Weevil answers on the second ring. "Yo, Vee, what's up?"

"Tell the truth, Eee. You own all six seasons of _Gossip Girl,_ don't you?"

"Am I supposed to know what that means?"

Veronica snorts and shakes her head. "No. Hey, I need a favor."

Weevil's end of the line goes quiet for an interminable amount of time. "My contacts with Neptune's criminal underbelly are dead or in jail."

"Not that kind of favor. I'm thinking of buying a car. Something old that could be fixed up for when Gai's ready to drive. Think you could find something for me?"

"Depends. Are we talking classic car old, or 90's Toyota old? Even a mid-range garage like mine has its standards."

"The first kind. I had this vision of him driving and decided I wanted him surrounded by steel. Since a tank's out of the question I'll settle for something sturdy. Like a Studebaker – even the word sounds impenetrable. Just listen to it. Stu-de-bak-er"

"You know, I hear tell Mercedes has a line of cars they sell to leaders of cartels that are steel plated."

"Let's call that Plan B. A Mercedes won't register on Gai's cool barometer."

"Yeah, and nothing says cool like a Studebaker," Weevil deadpans. "You got a budget in mind?"

Veronica hesitates, forcing casualness into her voice. "I'm looking for a deal. Something that we can buy and fix up cheap, but will be worth more in the long run. Do some scouting for me?"

"Yeah, sure. I'll keep you posted. How's the kid?"

The merits of discussing Logan during a phone call with Weevil are non-existent. "Fine, good. How's Felix?"

"Growing up too fast. Dropped him off at school the other day and there were a bunch of girls standing at the front. I swear to God, Vee, he did a pimp limp like I ain't never seen. Eleven years old. Where'd he learn that?"

She laughs, "Um, your garage? Television? _You_?"

"Well in this case, imitation is not flattery. No half-white kid from the suburbs is gonna walk around here like he's gangsta, even if he is mine."

"Do as I say, not as I do?"

"Yo. It is my god given right as a parent to be a hypocrite."

"Well, give him a hug for me – that should take him down a notch. And Weevil?"

"Yeah?"

"The car isn't the real favor."

When he answers, weariness edges his voice. "I didn't think it was."

* * *

_1:15pm_

**Logan**

Logan returns from his lap of the hotel grounds to see Eva's packed a lone suitcase; the clothes she bought during their Rodeo Drive spree are still in the closet. Once again she's the anuanca flower in her red dress, glass beads, and lapis lazuli.

He leans against the door and runs a hand over his face. His anger, while not gone, is tamped down. "Would it make a difference if I said I want to marry you?"

Eva latches the suitcase and brings it to rest on the floor by the couch, next to her purse, and doesn't say anything.

"I do. I almost brought it up the other night, but you fell asleep and I figured it'd be better if I had a ring-planned a big thing."

"Malachy," she admonishes, her jaw tight.

"What?" He shakes his head. "Should we go into banalities? I'll ask if you have enough cash? If I can send you the clothes? Or can we acknowledge that you're tearing my fucking heart out."

She drops onto the couch and stares at him balefully while tying up her sandals. "You may hate me, if it is easier."

"Thanks for the goddamn permission."

While they glare at each other Logan sees what he didn't when he first walked in: Eva's eyes rubbed red and raw, the knot of tissues fisted in her hand, the way her chin trembles. He moves to sit on the coffee table across from her.

"For the past hour I've been trying to wrap my head around this and it makes no sense. One, let's take kids out of the equation. I don't care—"

"Not today, pero next year, en cinco años —"

"No," Logan growls. " _You_ don't get to decide what _might_ be important to me _someday._ "

Eva clasps her hands under her chin and studies him. "Okay."

"Two, you can paint anywhere."

"No. My paintings are of Chile."

"You're also painting people. And if you want Chile, fine. You want to spend time with your parents, fine. We'll buy you a private plane with a bed and put a pilot on standby. You can sleep the whole way."

"No—"

Logan shakes his head. "I'm not done. Three-"

Eva grasps the back of his neck and presses her forehead against his. Her voice is thick, choked. "Por favor, Qué me preguntas?"

"I'm asking you not to give up on us."

"No, huevón. You are asking me to give up everything _for_ us."

He is, Logan knows, and each time she says no it's costs them both something. Every breath burns his lungs as he fights for control. It's real; Eva's leaving him. "Is there anything I can say to change your mind?"

When she shakes her head he takes one of her hands in his own. "Do you have enough cash?"

"Sí."

"Can I at least send you the clothes?"

"No," Eva shakes head. "I will never wear them."

He fingers the necklace she wears, the one he bought her during a work trip. "Will you keep this?"

Her hand closes over his. "Of course."

"Call-," he clears his throat when his voice comes out thick. "Call me and let me know you got there okay?"

"You will be here?"

"Where else do I have to go?"

Eva presses her lips together. "You have your sister, Dick, and Veronica. It is wonderful there are so many people who have been waiting to love you. I am happy for you."

"Happy for me," he sniffs, his eyes and nasal passages burning. "I'm leaving you, Logan, but hey, have a nice life. That's fucking great, Eva."

She ignores his sarcasm, as she always has, and hugs him. Her body quivers under his hands and Logan pulls her in tighter, hoping to quell the earthquakes within both their skins.

"Adios, Malachy," she whispers, and kisses him. Logan opens her mouth under his, pushing to remind her what they are together. Her fingers twine in his hair and he can taste the piquancy of tears and grief, so different from her usual, sweet flavor.

It's then that he knows no argument can win her back, because she'd tasted the same last night. Their lovemaking was her goodbye, the words this morning a formality for his sake.

The embrace ends and Logan has the oddest sensation, that he's an intruder in a private moment Eva's having with someone else. He closes his eyes and lets her slip away without a word, as seems fitting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Though I've had this ending to Logan and Eva in my head since beginning the story, when it came time to say good bye I found it so very, very difficult. Huge thanks to nevertothethird and ghostcat3000 for spending countless hours re-reading, holding my hand and giving me much-needed guidance through this chapter. You ladies have made all the difference. N3 28 more days!
> 
> A/N: Thank all of you for hanging in there with this story so far! I did, and do, intend to update more often, but have to allow that life elbows in with its own demands that take priority. Like smut-a-thons. Just sayin'. But please know all your thoughts and notes you've send have meant so much.


	18. Maybe Redemption Has Stories to Tell

_Monday, May 18, 6:45 am_

**Veronica**

Dressed in the pantsuit that's become her work uniform, Veronica longs for jeans and a t-shirt. Clothes that say she gets to stay home and focus on the solitary case that holds her interest, and manage this huge upset in Gai's life.

Not that he'd let her manage it today any more than he did over the weekend. She's sick of facing a closed door instead of her son.

"Gai?" She knocks and tries the handle when there's no answer, but it's locked. "Gai," she calls, more forcefully this time, and bangs the wood with the flat of her hand. A tinge of shampoo hangs in the air and from this angle Veronica can see steam still clinging to the edges of the mirror in the front bathroom.

Which means he woke up sometime after her workout, showered, and locked himself back in the bedroom. Wallowing is understandable but she's reached the limit of being willfully ignored.

The door opens just as she's filled her lungs with air and raised her fist, so she almost raps on his forehead.

"Mom?" Gai asks as he takes off his headphones. "What's up?"

"I, um," she lowers her hand. "I wanted to talk to you."

"Mike's waiting for me." He hoists his backpack onto his shoulder. "I'm meeting him early."

"Wait, Gai, we didn't really talk yesterday. How're you doing with all — "

"I'm fine. I gotta go."

Veronica doesn't stop him as he brushes past her. "I could drive you."

"We're meeting Cam and Fish on the way."

"What about breakfast?" she asks as she follows him to the kitchen.

"Lydia's making pancakes."

Exasperated, she grabs the loop on his backpack before he can go out the open door. "Hold it, buddy."

"What?" Gai sighs and turns around.

"You know what. I have no idea where your head is right now."

He shrugs and focuses on a point behind her head. "What do you want me to say?"

"I don't _want_ anything. But you've barely talked to me all weekend."

"I've been busy."

"You spent most of yesterday locked in your room."

"So what? You spent it locked in your office."

"I gave you space. Now let's talk."

Gai frowns down at Keller, who's just come in from the backyard. The dog pushes her muzzle into the hand he offers and accepts his head scratch. "I gotta go. Mike's waiting."

"Okay," Veronica sighs, searching for anything else to stall his walking out the door. "Connie's coming to clean today. Did you make sure your floor is clear?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want anything special for dinner?"

"Whatever. I might stay at Mike's."

"Not tonight." She shakes her head and points to the table. "We're going to sit together and we're going to talk."

With a nod that appears more to placate than agree, Gai shifts his backpack and leaves without so much as a goodbye.

Veronica spends a lonely hour eating her own breakfast, drinking a cup of coffee, and responding to work emails. She checks her text chain with Logan—nothing since two days ago, when Veronica said she'd let him know if anything changes on Gai's end.

Finally, telling herself she's just checking, she goes into Gai's room.

His floor space is clear, as per the edict on days Connie comes, but the desk-a holdover from Sam's grandfather-is a mess. Flotsam covers the scarred wood top: legos, charger cords, a wood burning kit, old flash drives, the tablet Gai uses for reading and games, reeds for his sax (both new and used), and notebooks with soft, oft-thumbed edges, are sprawled haphazardly.

The notebooks range in color and are spiral bound. Strips of paper fill the curled, metal bindings and are covered in writing and doodles that, when Veronica's eyes skim them, mean nothing. Other than Gai daydreams too much in class.

A red notebook, closest to the edge of the desk and at the perfect angle for writing, pulls her attention. Here there's still randomness but, in between lyrics, scratch-drawings, and homework assignments are the words _Breaking Point._ They're gone over several times so the letters are thick and black.

She picks the notebook, looks it over carefully, and _there_. _Tinseltown_ and 'meet- _Pursuit'_. Which means he's been doing research on the internet. He knows about Tinseltown Diaries and that Aaron and Lynn met on the set of _The Pursuit of Happiness_.

With a glance at the clock Veronica calculates Gai will be at school any minute, if he's not already. She presses the number three on her cell and waits, hoping he hasn't turned his phone off yet.

"Mom? What's up?"

"Gai, hey, are you at school yet?"

"Almost."

"Good, listen. What do you say we play hooky today? I'll come pick you up and we'll go to the zoo or something."

The school's five-minute warning bell chimes and the muted background sounds on Gai's end become a cacophony. She hears him tell someone he'll be there in a minute, and waits until things quiet down. "Gai?"

"No thanks."

"Look, it doesn't have to be the zoo. We can go anywhere you want."

"I want to go to school."

"I really do think we need to talk."

"No."

"Gai—"

"God," he snaps, "Can I have just, like, _one day_ that's normal?"

Guilt floods her. She remembers being only a little older than him and wishing everything could go back the way it was. Or that she had at least one place where everything was sane and stable, like it had been before Lilly died and her own world imploded.

"Okay, yeah, okay. But we'll talk tonight."

"Whatever," he breathes with adolescent indifference. "Bye."

Veronica keeps the phone pressed to her ear a moment longer, though the call is already disconnected.

While half of her wants to storm Gai's class and yank him out by the ear, the other half just wants to pull him in and hold him until he cries it out. The feeling is similar to when he went through a rage phase as a toddler.

Her eyes stray to the computer and, for one stalker-mom moment, she ponders looking up his search history. If he's researching she already knows the top articles; before heading to South America she did her own cursory dig to see if there was anything new.

The detritus on his desk calls for cleaning—the legos sorted into bins, notebooks organized on the bookshelf, flash drives in the painted wood box next to the video camera on the shelf, reeds sorted between the garbage and the small ceramic bowl, depending if they're cracked.

Veronica runs her fingers over the items, knowing if she starts she won't stop. And for the next week, Gai'll bitch he can't find anything. Still…

The flash drives are labelled in the same tiny handwriting: _camping '10_ , _Mike & Fish, Uncle Dick Bday. _Then _Daddy,_ printed by a careful hand. She eyes the video camera-Dick's misguided, thousand-dollar birthday gift to a four-year-old-now dusty on the shelf. Or not misguided since it served as a frequent appendage on her son's face thereafter.

Until Gai used his footage to compile a video to play at Sam's memorial, after which he never picked up his camera again.

If she ever stops to tally the losses Sam's death cost them she might go insane. Full- on, straightjackets-are-the-latest-accessory insane. _No_ , she thinks, and drops the flash drives onto the desk. _Time time for that later, when the work is done. Do the job, Veronica._

After resetting the notebook at the precise angle it was before she picked it up, Veronica moves to the office. While the FBI has gone paperless, her foundational training left her most comfortable with physical files. By now she's created one for Sam's case in the Mars style, held down with prongs on the tops and bottoms of both sides.

Each section, from the autopsy to her hand-drawn timeline, has a specified tab. All of which makes it easy to find the cell, home and work phone numbers for Jennifer Weston's mother, Abigail.

It's time. She won't find out anything dithering with a stale case file and Abigail Weston is the best place to start. More specifically, Jennifer's room, so she can get a sense of the girl and unearth any secrets hidden there.

Still, Veronica messes up dialing twice before she gets the number right. While the phone rings she chews a sizeable hole on the inside of her lip.

"Abigail Weston?" she asks when the phone is answered.

"Yes?"

"Ma'am, you don't know me, but I'm Veronica Mars-Zare. My husband was Sam Zare."

_1pm_

No, work is _good_ , Veronica decides. Gives form to her day, her week, as she counts down to her Thursday appointment with Abigail Weston. Presenting an elementary school with the FBI Safe Online Surfing Shark award may not be what she dreamed of when she applied to the Academy, but it's fine. One hour in and out, plus drive time, and she can sneak in work on Sam's case on the side.

The kids are adorable, ranging from gape-toothed kindergartners to bored sixth graders that remind her of Gai. Their questions stick to the norm—does she carry a gun? does she catch bad guys?—and don't take too much time, so she her finishes the assembly ten minutes earlier than planned.

By some slip in the space-time continuum a normally-busy Dark Horse is between rushes and Veronica snags herself an iced coffee. The manager, likely picking up on her cop vibe, throws in a muffin at no charge.

With sugar and caffeine to fortify her, she parks in the same spot outside of Lin's Grocery. This time she bypasses the store to go down the opening between buildings, to the dumpster lane behind them.

Again walking in Sam's final footsteps, Veronica remembers the last time she visited this alley, a week after Sam died.

Gai prompted their visit that time, after he lied and said he was going to Mike's. Veronica headed out to the pet store only to find her son three blocks away. He was so small and determined on that bus bench, his knees pulled up to his chest and studying a handful of pamphlets with the routes.

Today she's here with the eyes of an investigator, instead of those of a grieving widow and worried mother. One who knew if she didn't take him, Gai would go on his own. And next time he'd disconnect his cell battery so she couldn't use the GPS tracker and find him.

Not much has changed since that dismal day eight months ago. The dumpsters are in relatively the same places. Miscellaneous rubbish litters the alley: boxes that aren't yet broken down, two decrepit chairs, a homeless encampment of blankets and a full shopping cart. As she gets closer, Veronica can discern the shape of a body under the blankets.

Before, when Gai was so determined to find Weston's gun, it took hours to circle the spot where Sam died. Today she heads straight toward it.

The dumpster is still there, though about two feet farther to the side than in the photos. Veronica looks around. Two and three story buildings line both sides of the alley; their few windows are painted shut and the fire escape ladders vary freshly painted to rusty.

In the access alley between buildings, eight months of traffic and rain has erased the bloodstain, still evident on her last visit despite the police department's cleanup efforts. She looks around and tries to imagine Jennifer Weston's movements. Then moves to both places the differing reports proposed Weston stood—a foot in front of where the dumpster had been at the time, and right beside it.

With muscle memory of long practice, she unholsters her weapon and points it to where Sam fell. Closes her eyes to picture him in the black jeans and blue chambray shirt he wore the day he died. Only, instead of the alley, she sees their bedroom two months prior to his death.

_Dressed in just his gray Dockers, Sam shakes out a shirt, attempting to get out the wrinkles._

" _Hey," Veronica says, "no wearing blue to work."_

_He holds up the shirt to examine it. "It's my lucky color. Besides, didn't you say it makes my eyes pop?"_

" _Hence the problem." Veronica picks up her earring and puts it on, eyeing the definition of Sam's chest and torso. "It's like waving a matador's cape. Every woman in a five-block radius wants to charge you."_

_Sam holds up the shirt and examines it, then wavers it in front of his chest. "Toro."_

_She dives at him, and they fall back on the bed laughing._

He didn't end up wearing blue that summer day, but he did on September twenty-fifth. Veronica saw him dress and walked out of the bedroom without commenting.

Of all the days to make him late to work with an impromptu romp, that would have been the one. If Sam'd been late, he and Harry wouldn't have been in the neighborhood of Lin's market yet. They wouldn't have been first on the scene and Sam wouldn't have chased Jennifer Weston down the alley.

Sam wouldn't have died on a day she was mad at him. Her last words to him wouldn't have been ones of anger.

She opens her eyes and she can see him. Oh god, she can see him so _clearly_. He stands there, mere feet from her, beautiful and real. Only not real. Veronica never saw Sam like this, his hands raised in supplication, his brow drawn up, and looking above her head with worry in his face.

The gun suddenly weighs a thousand pounds and pulls her arms down. Sam stays, unflinching, as she falls to her knees, unable to breathe. His name-one mere, tortured syllable-won't leave her body. Instead it sits in her chest as she watches him fade, washed away by a shaft of sunlight that breaks through the buildings.

His face. That goddamn face that eludes her in dreams, and she finds it here. Which means, what? That's she's officially gone crazy?

_Get up. Do the job._

Veronica holsters her weapon and, using a crumpled tissue in her pocket, wipes her eyes and stays kneeled on the pavement until she can breathe normally.

 _Do the job,_ she repeats in her head. Pull in the facts, analyze, assess, deduct. _Like any other case. Get off your ass and run it down. Do. The. Job._

She focuses on details from the case file. Based on the blood loss and how much Jennifer Weston's sweatshirt absorbed, it's estimated she started emergency proceedings less than two minutes after shooting Sam. Once Veronica's on her feet she sets her watch and looks around, trying to imagine what she could do with a gun in two minutes.

The reports state the police sealed the alley and searched it with two different teams. She and Gai explored it in both directions until it was so dark they couldn't see anymore, and she practically had to drag him to the car.

What she's looking for is the unobvious-a space or cranny Weston could have used to stash the gun that is small enough to be overlooked. There's nothing.

She searches for a futile half-hour hoping for something other than the logical answer, in that Jennifer Weston didn't act alone.

Veronica goes back to stand near the dumpster and toward where she'd seen Sam. This time when she tries to picture him nothing comes. She looks up at the rectangle of sky visible between the tops of the buildings and whispers, "I swear to you, I _will_ figure this out."

Moving her feet to go back to her car, Veronica kicks something. It clatters across the alley and she follows the sound. On the ground, glinting in the same shaft of sunlight that replaced Sam, a small blue button glints up at her.

 

* * *

**Gai**

_5:50pm_

Knowing his mom's car pulled in at their house a while ago, Gai keeps his back to his side of the street. He blows into his harmonica and practices folding a note, the way Grandma showed him. His eyes slide back to the windows of Cameron's house for, probably, the hundredth time, then goes back to watching Cameron talk Mike through an ollie.

"Put your foot farther up."

"But in the videos the guys always have it back," Mike argues, wobbling on the skateboard.

"Putting your foot back is about getting height. You gotta build up to it."

Zach, Cameron's older brother, straightens up and turns around from the car he's working on. "Give it up, Cam. The kid's a goddamn oaf. He's too clumsy to ride a board."

"Like you can do it?" Mike challenges. His sweaty face blooms red and he kicks the board over to Zach.

Gai rolls his eyes and looks back at Cameron's house. The curtains part for a second and his heart pounds like Fish's drums when she's playing that 'Less Than Jake' song she likes so much.

He turns away when he hears the front door open and settles himself on the hood of Cameron's dad's junker car. The one that's covered in an inch of crud and bird poop. When feet skip on the steps he doesn't turn, and reminds himself not to put his hands down on the car.

His focus is one hundred percent on Zach showing off not just ollies but kickflips. And on the deepening red on Mike's neck as he watches.

Look at anything but at Steph, until she moves right in front of him. "Oh. Hey," he says and nods.

She's wearing faded black jeans with holes in the knees, a green v-neck so deep it shows the black lace edge of her bra, and a black hoodie half-zipped. Her eyes are outlined in so much black stuff they look like sapphires inside lumps of coal; the left eyeliner is off, an inexpert, wavy vector instead of a straight line.

Her lips turn up in a slow smile that punches the air out of his chest.

Gai's feet are up on the bumper so she hits his knees with her stomach when she steps close. "Hey yourself," she says. Steph reaches out and runs her hands through his hair, root to tip, touching him for the first time. "You got a haircut, Shaggy Boy."

He shrugs and reminds himself to breathe. "When did you-"

"Gai," Mom says, behind him.

Steph backs up and Gai gets off the car. He looks between his mom and Steph, and can feel his face heat.

"Gai, who's your friend?"

"Um, Steph. Steph, this is my mom."

Mom sticks her hand out _(God Mom, so lamesauce)_. "Veronica Mars-Zare. Steph—short for Stephanie?"

Steph shakes Mom's hand limp-like, unsure, then flips her long, dark brown hair over her shoulder and tucks her hands into the pockets of her hoodie. "Stephana. Leigh. I'm Cam and Zach's cousin."

Mom does that hard, fake smile thing Gai hates. "I've never seen you around."

"We're been living in Modesto for, like, forever. My dad and I moved back to town this month."

"Ah," Mom nods toward Cameron's house. "You're living here?"

"No. I just hang out when my dad's working, or busy."

"Mmm. Well it was nice to meet you," Mom says. "Gai," she eyes daggers at him. "It's time to come in."

"I'll be there in a minute."

The way she stands with her forehead scrunched up, her chin stuck out, and her hands in her pockets, Gai knows she wants to make him come now. He meets her stare and ignores how he wants to obey her, like he usually does. Like a little kid would do.

"One minute," Mom agrees, but the way she looks at him says she's not happy about it. "Mike," she calls, "Your mom wants you in for dinner."

"Okay," Mike says back, and tries another ollie, falling on his ass for, like, the thousandth time.

Mom gives Gai one more look before going back to the house, and he can finally take a deep breath. Next to him, Steph laughs. It's a little sound, totally girly, and reminds him of a tambourine's chime.

"Wow, your mom's, like, _small_. Cameron said she was some kind of cop and I guess I pictured she'd be, I don't know, big. Tough looking."

"Yeah," he breathes, not sure how to explain that Mom never seemed small to him. Even when she stood next to big guys, like Uncle Dick. "I guess I better go in."

"Okay. Hey," Steph reaches out and grabs his thumb, making his chest pound out that same punk beat from earlier. "I'm around the next few days, if you want to hang out."

"Sure, whatever."

She smiles and looks down, all shy-like and says, "Yeah. Whatever." But when she steps away, her hand doesn't let go of his until she's too far away to hold on.

Gai backs up but stops when she turns around.

"Hey, Shaggy Boy."

"Yeah?"

"I like the haircut."

The grin that breaks free on his face feels goofy. He tries to pull it in but can't when she grins back at him, then flounces up to the house. Her hips move from side to side with each step, and it's not until Mike slaps him on the back that Gai realizes his friend's been saying his name.

"C'mon, man. We gotta go in. Food. FOOODDD," he drawls, like it's some kind of magic word.

Mike carries his skateboard and, when they're a house away from Cameron's, asks, "Why'd you want to hang out there, anyway? Zach's a total dick."

"Cameron's okay."

"I guess."

Like usual, Mike takes the shortcut through Gai's house to go home instead of walking around the block. Mom's already set the table and put out a steak salad and bread rolls, one of which Mike snags on his way through the kitchen.

"Watch it, Donati," Mom warns from the fridge. "You're liable to end up with my fork in your hand."

Mike grins and mumbles an apology around a mouthful of bread as he leaves through the door.

"Gai. What do you want to drink?"

He walks past her to wash his hands at the sink. "Nothing." Once his hands are dry he shuts down the pop station playing from Mom's phone. Her taste in music has gone way downhill since Dad died.

"Italian or Ranch?"

Gai shrugs and and sits himself at the table. He ignores Mom's sigh when she sets both bottles in front of him before sitting down.

"How was your day?"

He coats his salad in Italian, more dressing than he wants so he can not look at her a little longer.

"How come you never mentioned Steph? You guys seem," Mom's voice gets all tight, "friendly."

Looking up, Gai sees how her eyes and her mouth are hard. "She's cool," he snaps and stabs a piece of steak onto his fork.

"Mmm, hmmm. And just how old is this cool girl?"

"Thirteen-she's in seventh. Why do you have to sound like that?"

"Like what?"

He shakes his head. "Like you already decided you don't like her. You don't even know her."

"I know she's Cameron and Zach's cousin. Right there spells trouble."

"And my grandfather's a murderer. What does that make me?"

"Gai," Mom says, her voice going soft. "I didn't mean anything by it. She's-gah. I thought she was at least fifteen and the way you two were… it made me nervous, okay?"

"Nervous about what?"

"About you growing up too fast."

He doesn't know what she means and doesn't want to ask. Talking about Steph makes him feel weird enough. Talking about her with his _mom_? No freaking way.

"Can I be excused?"

"You've barely eaten."

"I'm not hungry."

"Then don't eat. We're going to talk."

"I've got homework."

Mom slathers butter on a roll. "Then you should've done it instead of playing with your friends."

Stuck at the table, Gai picks up a roll and runs it through his bowl to soak up the extra dressing. "Talk about what?"

"About all of it, starting with what happened with Logan Friday night."

"I met him, like you wanted. There's nothing more to say."

"No, after spending two hours together you blew up at him. What set you off?"

"He was a jerk."

"No, he wasn't, Gai. What happened? I was sitting right there and I don't even know."

"Dammit!" He throws down his roll, ignoring when the dressing splashes the vintage Skatalites t-shirt Dad found him at a garage sale last summer, the one that's two sizes too big. "Fine! I said I'd meet him and I did. Then he talks about getting me books and making like he was going to come around again."

"Okay, okay, shhh." Mom sets down her roll, brushes her hands of her jeans and moves to sit in the chair next to him. Her hands are cold as she places his between them. "Blame me, okay? I wanted to leave things open ended and give you a chance to like Logan, maybe see him again."

"I said I don't want to." His head and neck are hot. He wishes Mom would put her hands on them like she does when he has a fever and cool him down. When the heat spreads to his face, Gai yanks his hand from hers and, with his elbows on the table, presses his palms into his eyes.

He can sense her stand, and Gai doesn't move when she presses into his back and hugs him from that way. Mom's cheek rests on the dip of his shoulder and she makes those shushing noises, just like when he was little.

"Can you like, get off me?"

"What?" Mom stands up, back swipes her eyes, and looks at him like she's hurt, which makes him feel more like crap. "Sure. Sorry."

"Whatever. Can I be excused yet?"

"No."

She sits close to him again and Gai picks up his soggy roll. It's easier to make rivulets through the dressing with it than look at her. He wants her arms back around him. He wants Dad. He wants his room and his locked door and his sax-to take the air that's blocked in his chest and blow it through until he feels normal again.

"Gai, this huge thing happened and we're not _talking_ about it. You barely even spoke to Grandpa Keith Saturday."

"Why do I have to talk about it?"

"Because it's eating you up. I can see it."

"No it's not. I don't care."

"Yes, you do, and that's okay. Not just Logan, either. Gai, these people, Aaron and Lynn, they were real. It's normal to be curious."

"I'm not."

She lets loose a frustrated sigh. "Honey, I knew them. Grandpa Keith knew them. We can answer your questions."

There's a lot of questions he wants to ask her. Stuff she probably doesn't even think he knows since he had to dig deep for it. Like the transcript from the Aaron Echolls trial that he found buried in a chat room. If that Logan guy was so special, what was with Leo and the other boyfriend the lawyer brought up? How she used them against each other and got an S.T.D.—

_Ew, no. Don't think about that._

"I don't have any questions."

"Then why were you looking up the Echolls family online?"

Gai's snaps his head up. "Thanks for the privacy invasion."

"I didn't invade anything. You wrote notes and I saw them on your desk when I was in your room this morning. It wasn't too hard to figure out what you were doing."

"Why were you in my room?"

"I wanted to make sure it was ready for Connie to clean. Gai, we're getting off track, here. Logan's parents, they aren't you but they are connected to you. Good or bad, they're a part of your history and I took that from you. So let's fix it."

"Fix what?" Everything Gai felt yesterday during his research comes back in a red haze. "My grandpa was cheater, and a murderer who beat his kid. The Logan dude was always drinking and fighting and getting into trouble. His mom, my _grandma- "_

"That's what I mean." Mom shakes her head and leans toward him. "The internet only gives you lies and half-truths. I'm won't defend Aaron but Logan was kid, Gai. And Lynn, she- "

"No!" Gai pushes back from the table and stands up. "He—Logan-wasn't a kid when he went on this show, Larry King, and talked shit about his brother. Then acted all serious about the stuff his dad did to him, and how his mom knew, Mom, she _knew,_ and she let him keep doing it. You wouldn't," he swallows and looks down at the floor. "You wouldn't stay with someone who hurt me, would you?"

"Oh, I'd probably stay for a while." Her voice gets all hard. "Dismembering someone takes time, if it's done right."

Gai huffs a laugh, and meets her eyes.

"Honey, listen. There's so much you don't understand."

"Like what?"

"Like," she pauses, thinking. "Okay, do you know why Logan went on Larry King?"

Gai shrugs, because he figured it was just a jerk move, done by a jerk.

"A reporter pretended to be Charlie—the half-brother Logan'd never met—and got Logan to spill secrets about Aaron. Logan found out and thought Charlie had sold him out to the reporter. By going on Larry King he spoiled the reporter's story and got back at Charlie. Then it turned out Charlie never had anything to do with it."

"Really?"

"Yes."

A thousand more question crowd his mind and Gai asks none of them because it feels like if he asks one, he'll ask them all.

"You're doing it again," Mom says.

"Doing what?"

"You have this tendency to, I don't know, lock yourself away when things are tough and push away anyone who wants to help. It scares me."

"Why?"

"Because I know how isolating it can be. You've had some hard knocks, kiddo, and I hate to tell you, more are coming. That's just life. Don't forget there's people who love you and are on your side."

Gai thinks about the things he can't talk to anybody about. Like how Mom barely sleeps and she's always wearing his dad's sweater. How, when he mentioned camping this summer, she got all sad. That she never makes chicken and dumpling stew anymore because it was Dad's favorite.

"Gai, can we talk about it? About Logan and Lynn and Aaron?"

"What about them?"

"You're the one looking them up. What do you want to know?"

"Nothing." Gai pushes his plate away and folds his arms across his chest. He scooches down in the chair to look at the ceiling. "Can we just forget about all of it? Pretend it never happened?"

"Like I've done for the past thirteen years? It didn't work out so well, and especially won't now that Logan's back."

"What?" Gai sits up, his heart pounding. "I thought he was in Chile?"

"Planes go both ways." Mom looks at him, worried. "So far you've made the choice to not have Logan be a part of your life, and it's yours to make, but he's got other friends and family here-his sister, Uncle Dick. Me."

"So, what? He's gonna, like, come for visits?"

Mom shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe. He won't come to the house without your permission, though. I promise."

Gai gulps and slouches back down. Somehow he thought telling the dude off meant he'd never come back. Heat fills his cheeks. "What if I run into him somewhere?"

"What about that scares you?"

"Can't you just tell him to stay away, like fifty yards or whatever it they put on restraining orders?"

Mom's still a long time, studying him. She leans forward and rests her arms, crossed, on the table. "Honey, I'll slay every dragon that comes within a mile of you. I'll shield you with my own body if there's ever a reason to, but you don't need my protection from Logan. There's no threat here. The sooner you figure that out the better off you'll be. Unless you want to live inside a giant hamster ball."

She's trying to be funny; Gai rolls his eyes. "But what am I supposed to do if I see him? Like at one of Uncle Dick's parties or something?"

"That's up to you. My hope is you'll find a way to make peace."

They sit, Gai with his eyes closed and mom so quiet he knows she's watching him. Her take-no-bullshit routine is like the old days, which sucks, but is somehow better than how she's been all careful around him.

"Do you guys, I mean," Gai sits up and grabs his fork, to run the tine over the seam in the table and not look at her. "Do you talk on the phone?"

"A few times last week. Mostly about you."

It's bizarre, thinking about his mom and this, this _dude_ , and the whole history they have. How they used to be friends when they were his age, and the pictures he found online of them holding hands at Lilly Kane's funeral. It makes him wonder what else they'd talk about _besides_ him.

"Hey," Mom says and knocks his knee with her own.

"What?"

"Do you have any more questions about what you found online?"

Gai shakes his head and, suddenly, he wants to talk. He _needs_ to talk, and the words tumble out of him. "No, it's just, they're supposed to be my grandparents but they're like a story, you know? The guy, Aaron, even had his own _action figure_ , Mom. Like with abs and everything. I mean," he waves at the picture on the wall. "It's not like I ever met Dad's grandparents but they seem _real._ "

"Of course." Mom reaches out and grabs his hand, and he lets her. "Logan would be the best person to—." Gai glares at her and she gives him a sad smile. "I'll tell you what I can. Growing up I spent time in their house, in their pool. I cooked in their kitchen, and even, god, peed in their bathroom."

"Nice, Mom."

"The point is, we hung out with Logan so much, most of the time I forgot he was the son of movie stars. His parents were on the fringes, these glamorous people who would flit in and out. Even being there they didn't always seem real to me."

"What do you mean?"

"Imagine if Fish's mom was, oh, I don't know, Adele. You wave hi when she's dropping Fish off for a pool party, then that night you go home to watch the VMAs and she's walking the red carpet."

He does imagine it, and snorts. "Okay, that'd be totally weird."

"Would it help to see pictures? Normal stuff, not what you'd find on the internet. I have a few, mostly of Lynn with Logan."

Gai doesn't want to see pictures of that Logan guy, but maybe mom's right. Maybe pictures of these people at home will make it all not seem like a story he read that has nothing to do with him. He shrugs. "Whatever."

"Okay, it'll take me a few minutes to find the photos." Mom points to his salad with the roll all sad and soggy in the middle. "Eat while I'm gone, okay?"

"Yeah, okay."

Mom stands up and, before she leaves the room, places her hands on his shoulder and her cheek on the top of his head. "I love you."

Gai grabs her hand. His stomach grouses; he's starving, and even the dressing-soaked bread looks good. He mumbles, "Love you, too," and digs in.

* * *

**Veronica**

_11pm_

Veronica pours herself a much-deserved finger of leftover vodka and wilts into the kitchen chair. The counter is covered with dinner dishes and three dozen photographs litter the table. Her throat is raw from hours of storytelling and every muscle in her body, awake for twenty hours now, calls for sleep.

It's funny, how you'll do for your own child what you'd tell anyone else to fuck off for even suggesting. Aaron was in few of the photos, given he wasn't much of a father; that didn't make Memory Lane less treacherous.

She picks up one photo, taken by the Echolls' pool the summer before she, Logan, and Duncan started at Neptune High. It'd been a fun day, with no one but Letty around to watch them.

She and Duncan were in their bashful flirtation stage at that point, still weeks away from their first kiss. Their pubescent fumbling was the antithesis of Lilly and Logan, who'd snuck off. It wasn't hard to figure out what they were doing when Lilly came back first, her lips swollen, and pointedly gargled with Skist.

At the time it seemed comical when Logan came out of pool house looking so damned pleased with himself. And even funnier, how his face shuttered when Aaron walked out of the main house.

While Aaron loped an arm over Logan's shoulder and whispered something in his ear, Veronica snuck in the shot of Logan's panicked expression. She gave a copy to Lilly with 'BUSTED'! written on the bottom in Sharpie and, _man,_ how they'd laughed.

That was one story she skipped telling Gai.

More as an exercise for her hands than her mind, Veronica lays the other photos out in symmetrical rows and aligns the vertical edges. Then does the same horizontally.

The early pictures have a small date in the bottom right corner and are arranged in chronological order. Most she took at the Echolls' estate, and a few at school events and neighborhood parties. The quality improves commensurate with Veronica's photography skills as they progress from posed snapshots to candids.

While Aaron flashes his practiced grin in a few frames, the table reads like a Lynn mosaic. Dozens of permutations of her smile, from cheerful to stoned, gleam up at Veronica. The woman is forever beautiful, a tragic figure lost in the prime of her life. Or so the papers said.

Her hands shake as she picks up a picture. In it Lynn smiles with her arms around Logan. His wrist is in a cast, the result of a skateboarding accident, if she remembers right. One none of his friends witnessed. Logan looks achingly like Gai in the photo, only months older than their son is now.

She recalls other injuries and various absences from school; Logan was an active kid with little regard for attendance policies so she never thought to question his explanations. None of them did.

On the cast, near the bottom, is MOM, written inside a red heart.

Veronica knew Lynn was aware of the abuse; the woman drank and had her vapid moments but she was _there_. Given the beat down Veronica witnessed Aaron give to Dylan Goran, he had to have lost control in front of his own wife on more than one occasion. Logan essentially said so when he went on Larry King.

So yeah, this wasn't the first time Veronica made the connection Lynn knew. It is, however, the first time she thought about it from her own perspective as a mother.

In her tired state, thirteen-year-old Logan's face blurs so it looks even more like Gai's. Exhaustion pulls her eyes closed and an image forms wherein it's her son wearing the cast while Aaron lurks behind him, a lit cigarette in his hand.

Aaron sees her watching and gives her a grin that's all dare and challenge as he moves the cigarette toward Gai's sweet, vulnerable neck. Her screams go unheard and her veins fill with lead as she tries to get to them, but she's in a box made of clear lucite and can't get out.

Keller's anxious yip and paws digging at her thigh pulls Veronica awake. Her head snaps up from the table; blood and adrenaline make her heart pound and her lungs rasp. The bright lights of the room and Keller's crusted head against her chin pull her back to the right time and place.

"Shhh, okay. It's okay," Veronica soothes the dog. Aaron's hated profile lays in front of her and she has the thought to blow it up full size, for next time she goes to the shooting range.

With anger to fuel her once again Veronica crumples up the picture of Aaron with his arm around Logan. She throws it away and starts in on the dishes, the clatter of Fiestaware against porcelain a match to her jangled nerves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you all so much for staying with this story. My life has been on a bit of a journey lately so updates have been slower than I like, but I appreciate the kind words and encouragement you've sent me over the past months. 
> 
> A/N: Nevertothethird, I feel like a broken record when I thank you, but as always your questions and concrit make my mind spiral and solve narrative problems I haven't even confronted yet. This story will prevail in no small part due to you, and then we can pay it Tribute as planned!
> 
> A/N: Thank you to Bry for the feedback you gave me on the snippet I sent you, and the hive mind for always being there. Your brilliance feeds me more than you know, including the reminder that Aaron Echolls had an action figure. (Which I can only picture Logan lighting on fire like all boys did with their GI Joes)


	19. So We Meet Again My Heartache

_Tuesday, May 19 10am_

**Logan**

The problem with falling in love with smart women is they're always looking ahead. Take Logan back in time, pre-Lilly, and he'd choose only vapid chicks who wanted him for his money or family notoriety.

_Solid plan. Worked out with Caitlyn Ford, didn't it?_

_Fuck you._

From his place on the floor, with his back against the couch, the mini-fridge taunts with its little colored bottles. Oblivion is on offer and he _wants_ it. Wants it as much as that first, burning swallow. The warmth that'll start in his stomach and loosen his limbs, maybe even the muscles in his chest and abdomen that make it hard to take a deep breath.

_Wow. Bimbos and alcohol. Look at you reverting to form._

For the hundredth time Logan listens to the voicemail Eva left on his hotel phone. It's nothing special, a halting message to say she's home safe. The long pause between that and goodbye is what kills him. What did she leave out?

Better question, why is he leaving it up to her to fill in that blank?

No. Fuck this. Eva doesn't get to make all the decisions in their relationship.

Logan gets up, gathers the clothing on the floor, and dumps it into the open suitcase on the bed. He'll show up on the doorstep at La Culpa, ring in hand, and convince her their love is bigger than their problems.

_The music swells, the credits roll, AND THEY LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER!_

For the third time in two days Logan pours the clothes onto the floor and goes back to lay on the couch, in sight of the mini-fridge. Drinking would be so easy. Every other thought—take a much-needed shower, change clothes, order food—requires more purpose than he can drum up right now.

In the dim room, the fridge morphs and appears as a person. Or, not a person—an animal. One with long limbs pulled in so its body is a bulky, square mass huddled in the corner.

_Dance with a gorilla, the gorilla decides when to stop._

The long remembered mantra, one of his favorite from A.A., helps. He won't drink—not right now. In five minutes, an hour, tomorrow, he'll confront that decision and make it again. Like he's done for the past eleven years.

_Wait, you mean 'one day at a time'?_

Logan pulls a pillow over his head and closes his eyes.

* * *

_8pm_

**Veronica**

There's an old joke of Giv's replaying in her mind. One, she was told, he would pull out whenever he had to work late, and missed one of his sons' events. He'd come home dead tired and ask how the game or the concert went, and Sam or Matthew would wheedle a smile out of their dad by telling him, 'You missed a real shit show'. To which Giv could reply, 'Come work with me. That's a shit show.'

If she's still around when Giv gets home tonight, Veronica thinks, she can resurrect that old gag.

"Veronica, how could you?"

"I wasn't asking for your opinion, Lois."

"Well, you should have. You haven't seen this," Lois sour-puckers her lips, " _man_ in more than a decade. Yet, you blithely bring him home to meet-"

"I didn't _blithely_ do anything."

"-to meet Gai. You lied to us all these years, made Sam lie to us—"

"Oh, please. No one could _make_ Sam do anything."

Lois' silence fills the room with unspoken accusation and Veronica thinks, t _here it is again._ How she became responsible for Sam's every failing, though he was near thirty when they met, still confounds her.

Gai leans in the hallway entrance behind Lois, drawn away from his homework by their voices. Veronica flicks a glance his way and he crosses his eyes, dispelling her anger. Her lips tic and she presses them together to hold back a smile.

"Look," she shakes her head at Lois. "It's not public knowledge that Logan is Gai's father. I wanted to keep it that way, for obvious reasons. If the press—"

"So now I'm a gossip?"

"No, I—you know what? It wasn't about you. It's still not about you. Given how things have changed, I thought you deserved to hear what was going on in your grandson's life, not be taken by surprise if it comes up. That's it."

"Well, thank you so much for your very little, very _late_ consideration. But did you consider how Gai would feel before you-"

"Grandma, it's cool." Gai interrupts her, his tone so casual he'd even convince Veronica, if she didn't know better. "I'm fine."

Lois turns to him. "Gai, you do not have to protect your mother. This must be so upsetting."

"No, For real." Gai shoves his hands in his pants pockets, rucking his oversize, buttoned cardigan up around his wrists. "At least I know the truth. And I mean, yeah, the whole thing's still crazy weird but we're figuring it out." His eyes slide to meet Veronica's. "I'm okay."

"Well," Lois' voice softens and, conversely, sours. "I'm sorry. This is all just so…"

"Crazy weird sums it up," Veronica says. Gai's grin is elixir, a mile marker in the emotional marathon they've been running since she first told him of Logan. She smiles back. "Are you packed up?"

"Yeah."

"Take your stuff and wait out for me outside, okay? Your grandmother and I need a minute alone."

"Sure."

Lois accepts Gai's hug goodbye, and Veronica's irritation ebbs at the obvious affection between the two.

In the silence after Gai closes the door behind him, Sam and his brother Matthew stare at her from the many pictures. It's as if they want to remind her to take care with their mother. She fixates on a framed photo of Matthew, gangly and adorable at sixteen, posing pin-up style on the hood of his first car.

"Lois?"

No answer. Veronica lowers herself to the couch, hoping the less adversarial she appears, the more Lois will listen to her. "Can we sit and talk about this?"

After a pause, the older woman perches stiffly across from her, in an Edith Bunker-style occasional chair, complete with a doily on the back. "What else could you possibly say?"

"It's more of a favor I need to ask. Gai listens to you. When, or if, the subject of Logan comes up, it's important to keep your comments neutral."

"Oh for heaven's—now I'm not even allowed to have an opinion?"

"You don't have an opinion. You have snap judgements based on little to no information."

"And whose fault is that?" Lois waves a dismissive hand. "Besides, I remember what I read in the newspapers about that Echolls family."

"You could read every word ever published and still know nothing about Logan. Not Aaron Echolls' son. _Logan_."

"Well," Lois scoffs. "The who is not important—it's your judgment I question."

"My—," Veronica clenches her teeth and reminds herself to stay on point. "Fine. Any comments about my judgment refer to me in private. Gai gets the company line."

"Which is what? That he should embrace this, this stranger?"

"No. That we're here to love and support _Gai_ no matter what. I don't want him to turn down a relationship with Logan out of loyalty to Sam or anyone else. Lois, give him room to change his mind."

The older woman's blue eyes flash accusation at her. "Does Sam not deserve that loyalty?"

Veronica crosses her arms and legs and settles her back on the couch. A cold suspicion laces her voice. "What are you asking?"

"Nothing. But you did go off on a supposed work trip and come home with an old boyfriend. Whether he's Gai's father or not—"

"He is."

"Of course he is. What I question is how clearly you are thinking. Sam's not gone a year and you're running off to South America for a man you supposedly wrote off a decade ago."

A caustic laugh bubbles out of Veronica, harsh even to her own ears. "You make it sound like Logan whirled me away on some torrid affair. I went down there looking for confirmation of his _death_. For _Gai_."

The older woman's hauteur expression speaks for her.

"Fine." Veronica scoops up the bag at her feet and rises. "Think what you want. All I care is what you say in front of Gai. If you can't handle yourself I'm sure Lydia will be happy to take him on Tuesdays and Thursdays."

The moment the words leave her mouth Veronica regrets them, and even more when Lois wilts into the chair. "I—dammit. I didn't mean that. Of course Gai will still come here."

Lois nods, her voice quiet, conciliatory. "I will tailor my comments in front of Gai but understand, I am not happy about your choices in this matter."

Years of battles, both large and small, stretch behind them; moment after exhausting moment of facing off with this rigid woman.

"Let's be honest, Lois." Veronica picks up Keller's leash from the coffee table and stands. At the sound the dog comes over and waits while it's clasped to her collar. "Are you ever happy with my choices?"

"Do you ever ask? _Before_ you make them?"

The accusation is one Veronica's heard before, and from people whose opinion matters far more to her than Lois' ever will. It's only because of Gai she holds back a scathing response and grips the leash tighter. "We'll see you Thursday."

* * *

**Gai**

Outside, Gai waits for Mom and Grandma to finish talking. Or fighting. He drops onto the front stoop, next to an ugly terra cotta pot in the shape of a pig. The thing has a chipped ear and stained feet. Green shoots come up through the dirt in its back, the first hint of the nasturtiums that'll overtake the poor sow like they do every year. He pats the old friend.

He's halfway through "Love Me Do" on the harmonica when his phone buzzes, an unfamiliar number on the screen. Mom's warning about not answering calls from unknown numbers goes through his head and Gai ignores it.

"Hey, Shaggy Boy."

_Steph._ Gai's stomach lurches.

"You there?"

"Yeah." His mind is empty. After a super long time, long enough for his back to break out in a sweat, Gai comes out with the not-so-brilliant, "What's up?"

"Nothing," she says, major casual. "Cameron gave me your number. I thought we were going to hang out today?"

"We _were_?" and fuck of all fuckity times his voice raises three octaves halfway through the word.

Heat spreads over Gai's body, even more so when he hears what sounds like a laugh from Steph's side of the phone.

"Sorry. I, um, walked into a cobweb," he improvises.

"Ugh. I hate spiders."

"Yeah, me too," Gai says, though he doesn't. Spiders are awesome.

The line goes muffled and Gai's not sure if he should talk or wait for her or what because, like, he doesn't even know what to say to girls. Except Fish but she doesn't count.

"—be around tomorrow?"

"What?"

"I said, are you going to be around after school tomorrow?"

"Yeah, um, I mean no. Kinda." Gai rolls his eyes. "I'll be at Mike's."

"Okay," Steph drawls when neither of them come up with anything else to say. "Maybe I'll see you around."

"Maybe."

The door behind him opens and slams shut. Gai whispers, "Gotta go," to Steph, then jumps up and follows Mom as she breezes past him, Keller half-running to keep up with her.

"Mom?"

"What?" she snaps.

_Whoa_. "Nothing."

Mom opens the back door for the dog and waves him toward the front passenger door. "Get in."

"Wait, is everything okay with Grandma?"

"It will be."

"Why'd you want me to leave?"

She sighs, slams the back door after Keller's in, and redoes the top button on Gai's cardigan. "Do you know the real reason your Grandmas got upset?"

"'Cause she's like, monster overprotective?"

Mom shakes her head and glances at the house. "Think about it. Your dad's gone and Matthew," she shrugs. "Other than you the only family they have left is a few distant relatives back East."

"Yeah, so?"

"So," she opens his door and waits until he's seated, then stands there. "With Logan back in the picture—"

"He's _not_ in the picture."

"With Logan _back_ , she's afraid they'll lose you, too since, biologically, they're not your grandparents."

"Did she say that?"

"No." Mom tucks her hair behind her ears. "She didn't have to."

"Well, who gives a shit about biology?"

"Hey." Mom gives him a soft bop upside the ear. "Dave Grohl, wanna ask me that question again, with manners?"

Gai snickers and buckles his seatbelt. "I mean, family's who shows up, right? Grandma and Grandpa are, they're—" He tries to come up with a word and, failing, shrugs. "Grandma and Grandpa. I'd rather have them than some murdering psycho, anyway."

"You should tell her that sometime. Though you might phrase it better."

"Yeah, okay."

Mom tucks her hands in her pockets and looks down at the ground. Her words, when they come, are low and hard to hear. "Lois was right, though. You don't need protect me, Gai."

"I wasn't." When she looks up at him, her lifted brow saying she doesn't believe him, he shrugs a shoulder, meaning it. "It's—last night. Talking helped."

"It did?"

"Yeah. I mean," Gai searches for the words to explain how much lighter he's felt since talking to Mom. How this loony story about all these famous, messed-up people settled into place instead of sitting on his shoulders. Finding no words, he shrugs, "Yeah."

"Well said," Mom laughs. She waves her hand and says, "Fingers and toes," before she shuts the door. Like he's still five.

During the drive, Gai can feel Mom think in the quiet. He pulls out his harmonica and turns it through his fingers, enjoying the smooth, metal texture. Keller presses her nose against the back window and Mom hits the button to roll it down, even though it's about sixty-five degrees outside.

Gai's brain goes back to Steph, like it always does lately. "Hey, do you think it's too early for my voice to start changing?"

"What?"

"My voice. It did this weird thing when I was talking today."

"What weird thing?"

"Like, _were_ ," he demonstrates, replicating the funky lilt that happened when he was on the phone.

Mom side-eyes him. "Seems a little early. Were you nervous or anything when you were talking?"

He ignores her question. "Mike's voice changed already."

"He's also got dreadlocks in his pits and had that early growth spurt. Have you," she pauses and makes a point of concentrating on the road instead of him, "noticed any other changes?"

"I got taller, remember?"

"A little, but before your voice deepens there's usually other, um, changes that happen. Did you read that book?"

The book she bought him, _What's Going On Down There?—_ like there wasn't a _more_ awkward title for fuck's sake—is shoved far under his mattress. The blood in Gai's veins quickens until it roars in his ears. "Nevermind."

"Did you read it?"

"Can you drop it?"

"Only if you promise to read the book."

"Only if you promise not to bring it up again. Like, _ever_."

"Gaius, honey," Mom says, her voice oozing with fake sympathy. "You have no idea, the many, many, mortifying conversations ahead of us."

"Oh, man. _I'm_ gonnacatch a boat and hide out in Chile."

Her stunned silence makes it all worth it; Gai can't keep the grin off his face. "That was the turnoff, by the way."

"What?" Mom whips her head back to see the street she missed. "Damn."

They ride along in silence, then she shrugs. "Oh well, as long as we're headed this way, The Daily Scoop?"

Gai's pats the seatback so Keller moves forward and puts her paws on the center console. "Want a dogscream, girl? Dogscream?"

The dog waggles her butt and gives an excited whine that grows to a yip.

"Gai! Driving here."

"Sorry." But he's not. Keller's pacing in the backseat now and sniffing at the window. When she sticks her wet nose in his ear and licks his face, Gai laughs and pushes her away. He can see Mom smile, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enormous thanks to nevertothethird for betaing so quickly and including notes to make me laugh along the way. Including a link to The Brady Bunch movie that will haunt ME for the rest of this story.


	20. Hear Your Battle Cry

_Wednesday, May 20 9:15am_

**Logan**

Day three and Logan can no longer fight the gorilla. Every hour, every minute has brought him closer to the little fridge with its fucking sample-sized booze bottles. They line the shelves in various colors of glass with little paper seals.

He picks out the J&B, an old favorite, and twists off the cap. The fumes waft out and tickle the vibrissae in his nose. Saliva floods his mouth.

That voice, the Wilson-volleyball-asshat that lives in his head with an opinion on _everything_ , is quiet. Too quiet.

Logan caps the bottle and throws it in the wastebasket. Then grabs all the bottles in the fridge, tosses them in as well, and yanks open the door to the hallway. After the quiet of his room, braying laughter of three young men walking toward him is too loud. One looks him up and down, then frowns. "You okay, man?"

"Fuck off," Logan snaps. He sets the wastebasket down and steps back inside, the Do Not Disturb sign flapping against the door.

The mirror on the wall reflects a man stranded alone on an island. Shirt stained and wrinkled, hair mussed and flattened, beard unkempt. Eyes bleak.

_You look like shit._

_Where were you, dickweed?_

_Like I want to be there when your head's up your ass._

Abruptly, he needs outside the four walls of the room. Logan hasn't been on the balcony since Eva left- now he strides toward the doors as if his salvation is on the other side. The soft swoosh of the slider precedes a blinding wash of sunlight, and he steps into it, enjoying the red cleanse of his retinas.

When the black spots clear he takes in the balcony, unchanged since he and Eva last sat out there Saturday morning. The empty container of pineapple juice has rolled to the far corner and Eva's mineral water, now flat, sits under her chair. Her sketch pad is there too, the cover rising and falling at the whim of a small breeze.

Logan picks it up and goes to the edge of the balcony, by the wide railing. His fifth-story view is of the grounds, small and well kept. Tall palm trees and flowering bushes are so, so fucking _California,_ he's jarred into feeling in place. Landscapers work while a lone swimmer does laps in the pool.

The dark funnel of depression tugs at him—its pull as familiar as the handshake of an old friend. Looking down, Logan remembers feeling the same, long ago, on a rooftop in Greece, and many times since on _The Penelope_. That solitary deck he stood on every night because, really, at what greater height could you stand than above an ocean?

The breeze kicks up and throws back the first few pages of Eva's sketch pad. He wishes it were a journal, and he could read her thoughts from the past weeks.

Instead, as he flips through, he finds practice pages where she worked through repetition to nail down the shape of an ear, a hand, or a flower. There's the occasional full-on sketch, but none hold the significance he's looking for.

Then, midway through, he finds a picture of himself; the date on the bottom shows it's one she'd did after he left on his last, fateful work trip.

His expression is one Logan's never seen, since mirror time is usually limited to appraising nose hairs or brushing his teeth. Eva recreated their favorite beach spot, evident from the rock formations behind him.

Though Eva didn't put herself in the picture, the care with which she etched every line of his face places her in the scene as much as if she'd been sitting beside him. The soft look in his eyes and half-smile renders a man smitten.

Eva missed him, yearned for him. When their weekly phone calls weren't enough she found a way to place Logan in front of her. She loved him—so much she let him go rather than cut him half. Her decision to leave was a selfless, painful one, and cost her as much as it did him.

And he returned the favor by treating her like shit before curling up in a ball of self-pity.

 _Bravo, genius,_ the voice in his head snarks. _Now what?_

_Now it's that time again. To get busy living or get busy dying._

_Goddamn right. What's it going to be?_

In the distance, between buildings, Logan gets a glimpse of the ocean. If he were to leave the hotel and walk three miles straight, he could throw himself in the water. Three miles the other direction, he'd be on Veronica and Gai's doorstop. Fifty feet straight down and he'd never again have to feel pain, or make decisions.

He tucks the sketch pad under his arm and goes back into the room to shower and begin the grim task of living.

* * *

_3:30pm_

**Gai**

"What do you want? Horse or Make-it, Take-It?" Mike asks, bouncing the pumpkin.

Gai rolls his eyes. "Neither. Just play."

"I hate it when we don't keep score. Then how do we know who wins?"

"When do you ever _not_ win, Mike?" Fish asks from her spot on the ground, right in their play area. She doesn't even look up from her book.

Mike grins and runs the ball around her to sink it in the portable hoop that's been sitting at the bottom of his driveway forever. The thing's so old there's only three strands of net left hanging. "Yes," he yells, fist-pumping the air. "My point!"

"Yay, you." Gai rolls his eyes. "Your basket, you have to get the ball."

They look down the street, at the oblong pothole that's a natural ballstop. Before Mike can run after it, Cameron comes around the corner and scoops it up. "Dunati, you need to do a better job holding onto your balls, man."

"Why, when you're doing it for me," Mike throws back.

Their three-man scuffle for the ball is without rules, and includes a lot of elbow-jabs. Mike's got height and strength, but Gai and Cameron have him beat on speed. Fish wisely moves herself over to the curb since Cameron's never careful about where the ball goes.

He's so caught up in the game, Gai doesn't even notice Steph's shown up until she claps her hands after he makes a tricky shot.

"Nice, Shaggy Boy."

"Thanks," Gai grins. He uses his arm to wipe the sweat off his face and take a sneaky sniff of his armpit.

Today Steph's hoody is gray. The jeans are the same, with same holes, but today her shirt is red, and says something. Before Gai can read it, Cameron bounces the ball against his head.

"Let's go, man."

Throughout the rest of the game (final score: Mike 15, Cameron 12, Gai 7—according to Mike) he has a hard time keeping track of the ball. Steph parks herself on the curb to watch, which totally breaks his concentration.

The game ends and Gai runs to the outdoor faucet and takes a long drink of metallic-tasting water. Then, because he's worked up a sweat, he splashes some on his face and the back of his neck.

Lydia comes out of the house, keys in hand. "Mike, Gai, I have to run to the store. Call me if you need anything, and I'll be back in thirty, okay?"

"Sure, Mom."

"Did Fish leave?" Lydia looks around. Gai does too, because he totally forgot about Fish. Steph catches his eye and smiles.

"Yeah, Fish bailed like ten minutes ago." Mike says. Fish is lucky, with the freedom to come and go whenever she wants—Gai's mom doesn't trust him alone for more than an hour yet.

"Okay. You'll both stay right here?"

Mike rolls his eyes. "Yes, mom."

"And no one else in the house."

"We know."

Gai hangs back after Lydia drives away, not sure what to say to Steph. She seems comfortable though, talking to Mike and Cam like she's gonna hang out for a while. Until she gets up and wipes off the seat of her jeans, and then he panics.

Especially when she walks toward him. Even though it's Mike's house she looks right at Gai. "Hey, can I use the bathroom?"

Mike shakes his head. "My mom says—"

"Sure," Gai interrupts.

"Dude."

"It's the _bathroom_. You make her walk all the way to Cam's?"

Gai's glare must not be strong enough because it takes forever for Mike to throw up his hands. "Fine," he sighs.

"Um," Steph bites her lip and lowers her head so she looks up at Gai through her lashes. "Will you show me where it is?"

"Oh. Yeah."

The house is a lot cooler inside since Lydia keeps the shades down when it's super sunny out. Mike's fat orange tomcat, Skids, is stretched out on the back of the couch. He meow-yawns at them, then puts his head down to sleep. "It's down there," Gai says, waving toward the hallway. "The door on the right."

"Thanks."

Her time in the bathroom couldn't be more than a minute or two. Gai keeps his hands busy petting the cat who tolerates his attention in a haughty way. Little sounds—the flush of the toilet, the faucet, the door opening—tell him how long until she's back.

Like an idiot, Gai pets Skids on the flank where he knows the cat hates attention. A hiss is the only warning he gets before Skids sinks his teeth into the tender webbing between Gai's thumb and forefinger, and jumps to the carpet.

"Ow! Fuck!"

"Oh, are you okay?"

"Yeah," Gai sucks his wound, then shakes it. Luckily Skids is so old his teeth aren't sharp enough to do much damage. "My fault."

"Dumb cat."

Like he understands the insult, Skids turns his back, tail straight in the air, and walks toward the kitchen.

"Lemme see your hand."

"It's okay."

"Let me see it," Steph says, more firm.

Gai holds out his hand and, when she takes it, focuses on reading her shirt and _wills_ his body to not react to her. Which is a totally stupid plan since the shirt is shaped like her—

_Old man at the grocery store, the one that farted when he bent over. The hairy-chinned old lady Grandma teaches._

"Hmm, I don't see anything," Steph says, turning his hand over.

"It's," Gai points to a small spot, "there. See, it's nothing."

"Oh. Good."

She's only a foot away from him, and holding his hand, which is totally nothing. Like, big deal, right? Except there's static and heat between their skin and he can't breathe and he's sweating, which means his hand probably feels gross and he wishes he could wipe it off on his pants but she's holding it and she's looking at him not looking at his hand anymore—

"What's ebetud?" he asks, stepping away and taking his hand back. He can't think when she's touching him.

"Huh? Oh." Steph pulls out the hem of her shirt so he can read the whole thing, including the end letters, where they curve around her breasts, hidden by her jacket. "'Hebetude'. It's a band in Modesto—nobody you would have heard of. But they're, like, _amazing._ "

"What kind of music do they play?"

"Do you want to hear some?"

"Yeah." He swallows and takes another step back, where there's more air. "Sure."

Steph pulls a phone from her pocket and hot pink headphones from the other; they're wadded in a ball, which usually makes him crazy irritated. With one earbud in, Steph scrolls through until, finding what she's looking for, she smiles and holds the second earbud out to him. "Check it out."

The earphone cord is tangled and twisted so tight Gai has to step close to bring the bud up to his ear.

Steph's got maybe an inch on him. As they stand there, so close, he notices things he hadn't before. That her breath smells like grape soda. She has a hairline scar on her upper lip, a quarter inch long. Her blue eyes have flecks of gray.

Eyes that fix on his as she listens to the music. The smile she gives him says she's sharing a gift, something important to her, and he understands that gift. To better receive it Gai closes his eyes.

The mournful tune, a ballad of heartbreak, isn't bad but it begs for more. Gai picks the exact moment he'd join in with his sax if he were playing along. A beat later keyboards fill the space, which is okay, too.

The song ends and another starts, this time a fast-paced number that relies on the guitarist. The change in tempo surprises Gai, since a lot of bands are kinda one-note, and he opens his eyes to grin at Steph. "Cool."

"Yeah, my mom's boyfriend works at this bar where they play all the time. He let me sneak in and watch from the back. I got to hang with the band after the show."

"Awesome. Do you have more of their stuff?"

"Tons. Give me your email. I'll send it to you."

She hands over her phone so Gai can type in his email address, and he notices she's got his name entered as _Shaggy Boy._ When he gives the phone back their fingers brush and the electricity is there again, like, if he looked, there'd be blue-white sparks. "We, um" he stammers and hands her back the earbud. "I mean, Mike's mom's coming back."

"Oh, yeah, my dad'll be off work soon. I need to go back to Cam's."

Gai makes sure he's there first to open the door for her, like Dad taught him. Later he can't remember the words anyone said when they walked outside, or what Mike blathered on about for the next hour after Cam and Steph left.

* * *

_Thursday, May 21 12:30pm_

**Veronica**

The home of Abigail Weston is an early nineties townhouse, similar to thousands of others in the area: two-stories, three bedrooms, two baths with a back deck and a carport. Not fancy but reasonably nice, and affordable for a single mother of two.

As Veronica follows the directions Ms. Weston gave her toward visitor parking, she notes each home has its own landscaping in the front—most well maintained. A harried father is by the private playground, a screaming infant in his arms while he tries to corral a laughing toddler.

After the air-conditioned car the afternoon sun is too hot, and Veronica immediately regrets the black pants suit. Nothing, however, can entice her to take off the jacket. She wants to remind this woman she's a widow, but also a professional in law enforcement. Not someone who either deserves or will tolerate being lied to.

The unit is easy to find and, as she approaches the door, a sense of tranquility comes over Veronica. This is where she needs to be and what she needs to be doing right now.

Her finger pauses over the doorbell, however, so she can study the square metal decoration that hangs above it—obviously something from a child's long-ago art class. The square of brass is a pretty, patina green with etched words. the ink that once darkened them faded so they're hard to read: Abigail, Jenny, Mandy, Fluffy. The names of the occupants of the house, once upon a time.

While the mother in her understands the need to indulge a child's request to hang their art for maximum admiration, the cop side wonders at the stupidity of placing it by the front door. Like putting your kids' names under those family decals on the back of mini-vans; might as well hang out a sign, "Easy prey for pedophiles here!"

Her first opinion of the woman formed, Veronica presses the bell.

The door opens so fast she's sure Abigail Weston was waiting by it. The second opinion is that the woman's a ghost. Her skin is pale and her wrist, as it reaches to open the screen door, skeletal. Still, the clothes are classic-style and of good quality, befitting her job as an office manager at a large manufacturing company. Her short, blonde hair is fashionable and well-kempt.

"Mrs. Weston? I'm Veronica Mars-Zare. Thanks for meeting with me."

The hand that shakes hers is ice cold, and stronger than expected. A large bruise colors the back of it, of the mottled variety you find in the heaviest of drinkers. A broken blood vessel, similar to a red spider web, mars the woman's fine cheekbone. The eyes that take Veronica in are bloodshot but very, very aware.

"Call me Abigail. I can't say I was surprised to get your call. Come in."

All the shades and curtains are drawn and the air-conditioner cranked up to an uncomfortable level. Veronica, now thankful she kept on the jacket, follows Abigail down a narrow hall to a small, gloomy living room. Two high-backed chairs sit at a conversation angle with a fully-stocked tea service on the table between them.

"I know it seems silly," Abigail flashes a tremulous smile and waves her into a chair, "but my mother was from Britain. She always believed tea could smooth over the hardest conversations."

"I'd love tea. Thank you."

"Mrs. Mars-Zare," Abigail says, once she pours the tea. Her pause says she's waiting for Veronica to give permission to use her first name, as Abigail had done at the door, but Veronica doesn't want to put herself on that level of informality. Not yet. "Let me say again, how very, very sorry I am."

"Yes, I got your card."

"It was so hard to know if I should send it, especially after I waited so long. But until Jenny pleaded guilty I, well, I wasn't sure quite what to say."

"I understand. Abigail," Veronica sets down her tea and leans toward the older woman. "I've been trying to get in touch with Jennifer. I keep sending her letters and she sends them back. It would help, I think, to know just what happened that day. I was hoping you could talk to her."

"Oh," Abigail's earnest expression wilts. "No, I can't do that."

"Why not?"

Abigail gets up and crosses the room to a 40's style china cabinet. From the drawer she pulls out a stack of letters, these with a handwritten Refused, Return to Sender scrawled across them, instead of stamped as those on Veronica's. "Jenny hasn't spoken a word to me since it happened, and removed me from the visitors list long before she went to prison. She won't talk to her lawyers and I have no way of reaching her."

"What about someone else? Your sister, or one of Jennifer's friends?" Veronica knows from the police file Jennifer Weston had no other family and hadn't seen her father since she was a toddler.

"There's no one. She's refused all contact with my sister as well and Jenny was very focused on school, which didn't leave much time for friends."

"What about your other daughter, Amanda?"

"No." Abigail pulls her shoulders back and her voice grows firm. She puts the letters back in the drawer and slams it shut. "Mandy's staying with my sister for a while. I will not drag her back into this."

"I—," _won't give up_ , "—understand. Maybe you could tell me about Jennifer. Jenny," Veronica offers in appeasement.

"Mrs. Mars-Zare, I'm sorry. I truly am but, please understand, I lost my daughter as much as you lost your husband. It all hurts too much to talk about and I don't think I have anything to offer you."

"No, please," Veronica stands up. Her hands reach out toward the other woman, then she tucks them in her pockets when Abigail rebuffs the gesture by crossing her arms. "Abigail, I don't want to hurt you. I wish I could let it all go. I wish I was that kind of person but I—I'm just not. If I knew something about Jenny that's not in a police file, maybe I could understand—"

"Then you're a fool," Abigail says. Despite the inherit insult in the words, she softens them with a tender smile. "I gave birth to that child. Tended her every bruise and scrape, helped her with homework, and tucked her in every night. Her Halloween costumes were hand-sewn. I worked extra at a stationary store each holiday to save for her college education."

Abigail pulls her sweater tighter around her, her eyes brimming. "I knew Jenny. Yet, for the life of me, I have no idea what possessed her to pick up a gun, much less where she acquired one. I don't know why she robbed that store for a mere thousand dollars, nor hurt your husband. There's no answers for you here."

"I understand, but I'm not just Sam's wife. I'm an FBI agent, and a good one. If you let me look in her room, go through her things, I—"

"There's nothing to go through." Abigail's just her chin out and her eyes turn hard. "It's all been given to charity or thrown away. I've repainted and replaced the carpet. If that's what you came for today, you've wasted your time."

"When?"

"Last month, when Jenny changed her plea to guilty."

Veronica nods, awash with loss, and guilt for waiting so long. Her voice shakes. "Well, you've been more than fair. Thank you for seeing me today. I won't bother you again."

The walk down the hallway is dark and oppressive, and it's not until Veronica is outside that she can breathe deep.

A month. A month ago she would have had access to Jenny's belongings and possibly the loose thread— the fucking linchpin—that would unravel the mysteries surrounding Sam's murder.

How many other clues has she missed because she waited, trusting the SDPD to do _her_ job?

Veronica keeps herself in check until she slides into the driver's seat. But then, oh then, the heat trapped inside the car presses in on her chest, her stomach, her head. Rivulets of sweat run down her back, between her breasts, and under her arms.

"No," she whispers, then, louder, "No."

Heaving breaths start in her chest and she clenches her teeth to hold them back, to no avail. A slap to the steering wheel punctuates each word she utters until she's screaming and pounding every surface within arm's reach from the driver's seat "No. No, no no no shitfuckNO!"

When she can't hit anymore, when the heat and the expulsion of energy leave her spent and bruised, Veronica grips the steering wheel. She rests her forehead against it until both become slick with sweat.

Randomly, as they have at the oddest times in her life, one of Logan's inspirational voice mail messages comes back to her, with the fake-chirpy voice he'd used: "Never confuse a single defeat with a final defeat. F. Scott Fitzgerald said that."

She chuckles. "Shut the fuck up, Donny."

Veronica starts up the car and rolls down the windows. Sweet, cool air floods in. For extra umph she cranks the air-conditioner on high and shrugs off the jacket. The woman in her mirror has flushed skin and eye makeup that's in danger of melting off.

The rest of the day she has to dedicate to her paying gig, but next week she can go to Jennifer Weston's high school and talk to her teachers. From the file Leo brought her Veronica already has the class schedules and instructor names for all four years of Weston's attendance.

There's still a lot of rounds left to go in this fight.

With the windows up, Veronica drives sitting forward and her arms out so the air-conditioner can do its work to dry the sweat on her skin. By the time she reaches the FBI's LA office, a few moments with a hairbrush and eyeliner once again has her looking like a cool professional. One who has everything within her control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank YOU guys for all your comments and kudos along the way. Knowing we're in this together makes me slightly less crazy when I'm in my car dialoging this story out loud. (-:


	21. There's Such A Life To Go

**Logan**

_Friday, May 22, 1pm_

__~~DMV-license~~  
Bank acct  
Car  
Laptop  
Wave Hounds? - new board  
Nail clippers

_~~ Car insurance ~~ _

_~~ Roof rack for board ~~ _

Busywork is not overrated. Every time sorrow or self-pity creeps up, Logan grabs his now dog-eared legal pad and makes a new to-do list. A ticked-off item represents accomplishment, and time successfully killed, so he keeps the pages filled with check marks. By last night there was only one item left.

_House_

So began a new round of list-making, aided by a home wish-list he found online using his new laptop. Apartment versus condo versus house? Size? Location? Amenities? Budget? One story or two? Newer home or older? His answer to most are a question mark.

On the flip side of that list are the things he doesn't want: rainbow-hued tile in the kitchen, a swing on the porch, the smell of turpentine when you first walk in the door.

Those are deal breakers.

His deep pockets and desire for waterfront property lead him to Kimberly Roberson, realtor extraordinaire—an elegant, fiftyish black woman who's eager to show him all the luxury oceanfront homes for sale in hopes of a fat commission.

"Logan, you're going to _love_ this next place."

He rolls his eyes at the optimism she's maintained for four hours now. "I thought you were supposed to be good at this."

"I am." Kimberly gives him the side-eye and twirls her massive wedding ring, a tic Logan noticed the first ten minutes in her presence. "I just haven't figured you out yet."

"Yeah, well, I'm complicated." Logan looks out the window at the large estates, similar to those from his childhood. After he turned down every beachfront property that met his specifications, Kimberly suggested they look at other options.

They pull up to an ornate gate with carved lion's heads atop each post. Kimberly's salon-straightened bob ruffles slightly when she rolls down the window to punch in the code, and she flashes Logan a bright-toothed grin amid glossy, maroon lips. "Well, Mr. Complicated, what do you think?"

"That you're getting desperate." Her smile wanes and, because he's being a petulant shit, Logan waves a hand. "But as long as we're here."

Though he takes in the details through a fog of detachment, there's no question the house is a stunner. Cobblestones form a circular driveway, and a six-car garage to the side suggests lots of room for toys. Wildflowers bring the meticulous landscaping to life and every architectural feature is a curve, from the arched windows and doorways to the circular fountains throughout the grounds.

Inside, scents of wood polish and cleaning agent fill the air. Kimberly pulls her Vanna act for the umpteenth time that day and indicates selling points with a wide sweep of her arm. "It's in pristine condition and fully staged, though if you want to keep any of the furniture we can work it out. Walnut floors, six bedrooms, ten bathrooms, gentlemen's library, and a billiards room. If you look that way you can see you'd have your own putting green— "

"I don't golf."

"Well, maybe you'll take it up. Upstairs there's a media room, too. Now, it's farther inland than you wanted but you get more house for the money. Twice the square footage of the beachfront places we looked at in the same price range. It's even got a two-room guest house currently set up as a gym but you could change it to whatever you want."

"Is it soundproof? Because I'm thinking kill room."

An arched eyebrow is Kimberly's only response. "If you look out the windows to your left, you'll see the view overlooks the Fairbanks Ranch country club."

"Fat old men in pastel plaids? That's my secret kink."

Kimberly's phone buzzes in her hand and she pastes on a smile after she looks at the number, her lips tight. "Why don't you take a look around? See if there's any features you like and we can add them to your want list."

The ceilings are fifteen feet tall. The place boasts enough dark, rich wood Logan's sure the builder decimated an entire forest of hardwood trees for the cause. Every doorway is also an arch, and each room big enough to hold La Culpa in its entirety. The wet bar alone is bigger than his kitchen.

His old kitchen. Eva's kitchen.

 _Fuck_.

Logan curls his fingers around the phone in his pocket for the hundredth time that day. He wants to call and beg her to reconsider. Tell her he loves her. Yell at her for being a bitch. Talk through all the reasons she left and he stayed, even if he knows they'll reach the same conclusion.

In the end he doesn't call; he continues the tour of a house he knows Eva would hate, given her modest tastes.

The media room is a thing of beauty. Eight luxury, leather, built-in armchairs point toward a wall screen that's ten feet wide. The remote for the lights and projector is a huge tablet. Without asking, he knows the sound system would rival that in any commercial theater.

"What do you think?" Kimberly asks from behind him, her flawlessly made-up eyes wary.

He shrugs. "Very Howard Hughes. I'm growing out my nails right now."

"Okay, that's it." She snaps her fingers and points to a media chair. "Sit."

Logan sinks into leather while Kimberly glares at him, hands on the small of her back and feet splayed as far as her pencil-skirt will allow. Her voice manages to be both forgiving and steely. "I've been doing this a long time. Logan. By far, clients with money are the biggest challenge. That's fine, I accept that."

"I—"

"I'm not finished."

Kimberly waits, her jaw jutted forward. He waves a hand for her to continue.

"So," she nods, her tone softer now. "Go ahead. Give me all your little comments and make me work for my money. As long as you also give me something I can work _with_."

"I gave you my wish list."

"And six of the houses met it _exactly_." Kimberly crosses her arms and tilts her head. "You made up excuses and said they weren't for you. Either you don't know what you want or something's holding you back. Which is it?"

Logan glances down at the legal pad in his hands and the notes he made about each property. They're all as bitchy and unconstructive as Kimberly says: _too many skylights, too quiet, too noisy, kitchen's too shiny._

He flips back to his original notes about what he's looking for. Due to a jelly spatter, two of the pages stick together and he comes to his to-do list. _House._

Once he accomplishes that, what's left? A few calls to set up utilities? Buy furniture? Figure out what to do with his life for the next thirty or forty years?

"You're right." He drops the pad at his feet and runs a hand through his hair. "The first six houses were all fine."

Kimberly shakes her head. "Maybe you want to go further up the coast? In Neptune or—"

"No," he snaps, then shakes his head in apology. "Thanks. Email me the listings of the ones we saw today. I'll narrow it down to three and we can go see them tomorrow or Monday."

Their drive back to his hotel is quiet as Logan has a private freak-out. What the hell is he supposed to do? He has no desire to go back to school and the only job he's qualified for would take him away all the time. While reading and surfing are respectable hobbies, he doesn't want to live a life in stasis.

Traffic is heavy and steady for the afternoon. Logan plucks Kimberly's listings binder from the backseat and again flips through the homes in La Jolla and Mission Beach. The most appealing is a three story luxe model that manages to be opulent without crossing into ostentatious. Right on the beach, the entire west side of the house is made of windows facing the ocean.

He'd have to live cheek-to-jowl with other millionaires but no one said he had to be sociable.

A sheet protector in the back of the binder holds a hand-drawn floor plan and notes about another property, including a long list of needed repairs. "What's this?" he asks.

Kimberly glances down at the binder and grimaces. "New listing—if we can ever get the property in shape. Poor old man lived alone for years."

"Bad?"

"Depends on how much work his heirs want to put in. It's got some nice features."

"Like what?"

"Oh," she glances over at him, gauging his interest, Logan's sure. "Near Balboa Park. Built in 1913, so it has a lot of custom woodwork. Coffered ceilings, four bedrooms. The master has a sunroom with a great view. Large lot for the neighborhood, with a detached garage at the back."

"Take me there."

Kimberly pauses a beat too long at a stop sign but, saleswoman that she is, takes the turn away from Logan's hotel without a word.

* * *

**Gai**

_7:30pm_

"Last one in has to clean my sax."

Fish huffs past Gai. "Last one in has to eat my mom's cooking."

Mike, a hopeless length behind, yells, "First one in has to smell my farts."

Gai and Fish kick off their shoes on the fly and dive into the door of the jumpy castle. Mike, wearing laced high-tops, is a minute behind them. All the little kids take one look at him, scream, and hit for the door. Mike plays along, like he always does, and monster-growls at the midgets until the last of them get out.

Getting some leverage, Gai body-slams Mike so they're both sprawled; Fish takes advantage and does flips over them, until Mike catches her by the ankle so she falls down, too. Three cotton candies rumbled in Gai's stomach as he lays there, breathless with laughter.

"You know what?" Mike asks.

Fish, her head resting by Mike's hip, asks, "What?"

Mike lets one rip and the sound, amplified by the inflated bladder of the bounce house, echoes. Fish screams and rolls to kick at Mike's stomach. Their wrestling match gets so violent Gai scoots to the corner so he's not in the way, and watches.

What Fish lacks in size and strength she makes up for with dirty fighting. Gai knows, when you get into it with Fish and aren't careful, chances are good she'll pull your hair or knee you in the balls. Today, though, Mike pins her before she does damage.

"Say Uncle," he teases.

Fish squirms and tries to dislodge Mike, who sits on her stomach, pinning down her wrists with his knees. "Never."

"Uncle."

"Screw you."

Mike uses a knuckle to pound on the apex of Fish's collarbone.

Gai winces. "Dude—not cool."

Fish arches her back to dislodge Mike and, failing that, pummels his back with her knees.

"Hey!" a grown-up voice yells from outside. "This is your third warning. You kids are done for the rest of the night. Out!"

Mike lets Fish go. He suffers her kicks and slaps out the door, laughing the whole way. Then gives her a piggyback ride once they have their shoes on and she complains she's tired.

The movie's set to start at eight. The blacktop's a mass of blankets and people, with some camp chairs at the edges for the older folks. In the dusky light it's harder to discern individuals and, for a second Gai pretends his mom and dad are there, like they've been in the past years, set up on a blanket next to Lydia and Big Mike.

A breeze comes through, bringing with it the bite of cold, and Fish buries her face in Mike's shoulder. "Brrr."

"Hi Gai," a girl says.

He looks down to see Angela Meadows on a blanket at his feet. She looks cozy, in pink fleece pajamas with kittens all over them. Except for Fish, all the sixth grade girls changed into sleep gear for the movie.

"Um, hey."

"Do you want to sit with us?" Angie's three friends, the ones she travels around with like they're in a pack, giggle and whisper next to her.

"No. Thanks. I'm good."

"You guys can all stay. My mom's bringing popcorn."

Fish's legs dangle from Mike's elbows and she uses one to kick Gai in the ass, from which he guesses she doesn't want to sit with Angie and her gaggle of friends. She never does anymore—not since last year when they started spending all of recess whispering and giggling.

"We're set up over there," Gai says, waving toward their spot in the middle.

"Oh, okay. See you around."

As they maneuver through blankets and bodies, Mike puts Fish down. In a low voice she tells Gai, "You could've stayed."

"To sit with a bunch of girls?"

"To sit with Angie. She likes you."

"Likes me, likes me?" Gai takes that in, surprised. "How do you know?"

Fish looks back at him and rolls her eyes. "How do you not?"

About ten second-graders are lined up in sleeping bags at his feet. Gai steps between them and an older couple in stadium chairs on a flannel blanket. "How can you tell?"

"Oh, seriously?" Fish turns so they're face-to-face. "Do you know what the girls talk about at recess? Hair. And clothes. And boys. Who's hot. Who's cute. They do cootie catchers with the boys' names to see which one they're going to marry."

"They do?"

"Totally. It's gross. And your name is in ALL the cootie catchers."

Since Mike's moved far enough ahead he can't overhear, Gai asks, "Is Mike? In the cootie catchers, I mean?"

"Yeah, sometimes, but not like you. He's the bad choice, to up the stakes, because he's always so sweaty. It makes it more fun."

The loudspeaker announces the movies are starting in ten minutes. In the gloaming it's hard to see Fish's expression, but from her angry tone of voice Gai can tell she's not any happier about it than he is. "That's mean."

"Why do you think I'm always hanging out with you guys?"

They make their way over to the blankets Lydia and Big Mike laid out. Big Mike is already asleep, his hands behind his head, and Lydia's working the snack bar for the first hour so it's like they're alone.

Fish cocoons herself in blankets as soon as she sits down. While they laugh and jostle to get settled, other boys from their grade come over to share candy and steal from the large bag of popcorn Lydia left for them.

The first thing shown is an Animaniacs cartoon nobody cares about, past shouting along to the theme song. Gai starts a popcorn fight, cracking up when Mike goes all guppie-face and catches some kernels from the air.

Then it's old-school with a cartoon about a musical note that goes missing from sheet music for 'The Blue Danube' and wrecks everything when they find it. It was one of Dad's favorites. A surge of loss comes over Gai, like they do, and he no longer wants to be there. He feels a hundred years old, a thousand, and everyone rolling around and throwing food seem like little kids.

A body settles in behind him and he knows, without even looking, who's there.

"I don't get it," Steph whispers in his ear, sending a chill up his spine. "Why is his head red?"

Gai swallows, keeping his eye on the musical note stumbling around onscreen. "He's drunk."

She rests her chin on his shoulder. "I missed the beginning. How'd he get drunk?"

"He wandered into sheet music for 'Little Brown Jug.'"

The rest of the cartoon passes in a haze. He doesn't laugh when the drunk quarter note sits on a whole note, and it cracks like an egg, hatching little baby notes. Food continues to fly around them amid shouts and laughter and all Gai can feel or think about is Steph sitting behind him—her chin on his shoulder, and her breath that tickles his cheek every time she breathes.

Steph plucks a stray popcorn kernel off Gai's arm and eats it. "We got here late," she says, "so our blankets are set up at the back. Wanna go there? It's quieter."

"Sh— " he clears his throat before it can screech out on him like it did the other night. "Sure. Mike." Gai nudges him with his elbow. "I'm going to move to the back for a while."

"Yeah, whatever," Mike says, too involved in launching a Raisinet at Cameron to care. It lands on Big Mike's face who bats it away and lets out a snore, making everyone around them hoot.

Fish looks back when Gai moves his legs. He can feel her eyes on him, but it doesn't matter because Steph grabs his hand to lead him through the crowd.

She navigates them to the end of the row so they can circumvent the prone bodies and walk toward the back. When Gai loosens his hand, she grips his tighter and he returns the gesture.

He never got it—the big deal about holding hands with a girl. All the movies make like it's a thing, and whenever kids in his class 'go out,' that's how they show it.

Now, with Steph's hand in his, their fingers entwined so electricity bounces between them, he thinks he understands.

What he doesn't know is what it means. Are they going out? Is that how it happens? He always thought somebody had to ask somebody but nobody's said anything. It's just them walking through the grass and he doesn't know where he's going or why she asked him to come to the back and no one else, or why she's holding—

"We're here."

The spot she points to is at the outermost edge of the blacktop, right next to the grass. At this distance the screen looks small and it's so dark here, he can barely see the ground. The sound system reaches them though it's not entirely clear due to everyone talking. Gai knows once the crowd settles into the movie that'll change.

The biggest difference is how much colder it is. Without a mass of bodies to act as buffer, the night breeze hits Gai's face and cuts into the open V of his cardigan. "Aren't Cam's parents here?"

"No, Zach dropped us off."

Rows ahead, a cluster of girls whisper and giggle. Gai recognizes Angie's laugh and hopes she doesn't notice him with Steph, since he turned down her offer to sit together earlier. Then he remembers his conversation with Fish and doesn't care anymore.

"Hey," Gai says. "Do you do cootie catchers?"

"What?" Steph laughs. "Not since I was, like, ten. Why?"

"Just wondering."

Steph drops down to a sleeping bag that's spread out and uses their linked hands to pull Gai down next to her. "Brrr. Grab the blanket, will you?"

"What blanket?"

"On your side, back a little bit."

His fingers seek and encounter a jumbled pile of flannel. With Steph's direction they get it draped over both their backs and tucked in at their feet.

"Better?" she asks.

Gai lies, "Better." Because it's not better. Now he's all squished side-by-side with her, in the dark, and while parts of him say that's good, he doesn't want her to notice those parts of him. He's never wanted to stay somewhere more, or run away faster.

"Hey Shaggy Boy," Steph says, bumping his shoulder.

"Yeah?"

"Did you listen to that music I sent you? That band, 'Hebetude'?"

"Uh huh."

"What'd you think?"

"It was—I mean, they're okay."

"Okay? Only okay?"

Gai cringes, not sure what's his problem. Every time Steph's around he no can talk good. "No, like, great okay. Especially that song, 'Penny Thoughts'."

"Mmm, that's one's awesome. My favorite's 'When I Grow Up'."

"Oh yeah. Good polyrhythm in that one."

Steph snorts. "What kind of rhythm?"

"Oh, um, it's like when you've got more than one rhythm pattern. They don't match but, if it's done right, they work together."

"You know about music, huh?"

"A little bit. My grandma's a music teacher."

"Do you play anything?"

"Sax, harmonica, and some guitar."

"Guitar?" she asks, interest in her voice. "Do you sing, too?"

A memory, one of the last Gai has of his dad, comes to him. They were in the living room, facing each other on the couch with guitars balanced on their knees.

"Grandma said you hated the guitar when you were little."

"I did. It hurt my fingers."

"What changed your mind?"

"Watch my hands," Dad says, demonstrating finger placement to extend the F chord. He lowers his voice so Mom, in the kitchen making dinner, won't hear, and winks, "The guy out front with the guitar and microphone? He gets all the girls."

"Gai?" Steph whispers, saying his actual name for maybe the second time, ever, and his stomach blooms warmth at the sound. Her face shifts toward his and, when he turns to look at her, they're close. So close. One side of her is in shadow while the other's outlined in silver, the distant light of the movie screen reflected on her cheeks and in the shine of her eye.

"Yeah," he chokes out, "I sing." And it's not a lie, not really. He's got an okay voice even if it is still a little kid voice.

"Will you sing for me sometime?"

He wants to answer her but he can't. There's a tension between them he's never felt with anyone else, and doesn't understand it, or what he's supposed to do with it. All he knows is he doesn't want to move because it might all go away.

Steph's hand shifts to rest against his, on his knee. Their pinkies brush and it's another point of heat between them. Her head tilts slightly and she leans forward, her head looming ever closer. By some instinct Gai tilts the opposite way and he knows, then, he knows she's going to kiss him and he wants it, god how much he wants it but his heart, his heart pounds and he worries that his breath smells and his lips are dry and he doesn't know how to kiss her back because he's never kissed anybody.

A large chill runs down his spine—a cold drop that makes Gai shiver and wonder. Followed by a river of freezing that makes him scream and jump out of the blankets to get it all out. "What the hell?"

Mike, with Cameron and a couple other guys from their grade, are behind him, laughing so hard they're doubled over. Gai shakes a last piece of ice out of his collar and attacks Mike, getting him in the stomach, and taking him down.

Cameron joins in and pretty soon the other guys, too. When Mike gets up Gai gives chase across the dark grass, away from the blankets and away from Steph. For a second it feels as if he's doing something wrong, goofing around instead of staying with her. Then he's gaining on Mike. Everything else falls away, leaving behind a giddy high of school ending, summer nights, and goofing around with his friends after dark.

* * *

**Veronica**

_7:30pm_

Logan's waiting for her at the standard-fare taqueria, a white, plastic triangular number on the four-top showing he placed an order. While Veronica approaches, a teenage waitress puts down two plates weighted with food. With the ease of a veteran she pulls two Mexican cokes out of her apron, pops off the tops, and places them on the table.

 _He looks tired_ is Veronica's first thought. _And broken_ is her second, when Logan catches her eye and stands up, a half-hearted effort at a smile on his face. The weight of _something_ keeps it from reaching his eyes. "Hey, you."

"Hey, yourself," she responds. Their embrace is clumsy, his attempt at kissing her cheek interrupted by the hug she gives him, and they both laugh at the awkwardness of it.

Logan waits for her to sit first and waves at the table. "Is this okay?"

On the plate in front of Veronica are four fish tacos with extra sides of guac and sour cream, her standard order from their teen years, and a dish of pintos and rice. "Looks great, thanks. I skipped lunch and I'm starving."

"Working a case?"

She waggles her splint at him. "Not released to full duty until my finger heals. I'm splitting my time between grunt work here and closing out the Petturi matter in the L.A. office."

"How's that going?"

"Slow, which is the only speed the federal government seems to know." And ideal, since she has her own reasons for needing to be in Los Angeles right now.

"Ah. Where's Gai tonight?"

"Annual fundraiser at his school. They do a carnival thing, then close out the night with an outdoor movie on the playground. Lydia's bringing him home. Logan, what's going on?"

"In a minute. First, any chance Gai's changed his mind?"

Veronica softens her voice, not wanting to cause more hurt. "I said I'd contact you if he did."

"I know." Logan pokes a fork at his enchiladas.

The guy looks so dejected she has to throw him a bone. "He made a joke about it the other night, though, so I think the shock value's worn off."

"Gai did? What'd he say?"

"Something about catching a boat and hiding out in Chile so he didn't have to partake in the puberty conversation we were having."

Logan's lips twitch. "Hey, I've moved up to punch line. That's progress."

"I hope so."

"Puberty, huh?"

Veronica takes a bite of her taco, and moans when the blend of tilapia and mango hit her taste buds. She talks around the mouthful of food. "He _is_ twelve. Remember that age?"

"I remember long showers and a dirty magazine under my mattress."

"Which Lilly found. Along with a ruler, she said?"

"No," Logan rolls his eyes. "That was in my math book, and I was using it as a bookmark. Leave it to Lilly to turn it into something else."

"Of course." Veronica smiles. "Didn't she annotate it?"

"Yep. At three inches she wrote _'poor baby'_ , at six ' _it'll do'_ and nine ' _call me'_ , with a little winky face. God that winky face drove me in-sane. Bitch."

They both laugh, shared humor and nostalgia creating an intimacy that only comes with the oldest of friends. "I still miss her," she says.

"Me too."

"So," Veronica dives into her second taco, and talks around it. "What brought you back? Trina?"

"No, I haven't talked to her." Again Logan pokes at the uneaten enchiladas. "And, actually, I never left—decided I'd stay in California."

"For how long?"

"For good."

"That's," she swallows, washing down the fish with Coke when it sticks in her throat. "New."

"Look," Logan sets down his fork and leans forward, elbows on the table and hands interlaced. "I know it's not what you expected—"

"No, it's—. Logan, from what I got, you and Eva have this whole life in Chile. How can you guys put that aside and move here?"

"Not Eva, just me. She's the one with a life in Chile. I was always on a boat, remember?"

It surprises her, that Eva and Logan would continue to spend so much time apart after the deep connection she observed at dinner the other night, and what she knows of Logan. But who is she to pass judgement? Apparently the arrangement worked well for nine years already.

"So you're staying," she says, clarifying.

"That's the plan."

"Logan, why?"

"A few reasons. Gai— "

"No." Veronica shoves her plate aside and points a finger at him. "You can't do that. You can't upend your life and lay it on my son. Not after he made his feelings clear."

"That's not what I'm doing."

"The hell you're not."

"No, I—shit. Okay, fine." Logan moves his clasped hands behind his head and leans back. "Gai's the main reason I'm staying but so what? You're telling me you haven't spent the last twelve years considering him before you made any decision?"

"He's mine to consider. Not—" she stops before she can say _not YOURS_ , because it feels cruel.

"Then why did you have him meet me? What were you hoping for?"

Their raised voices are drawing stares. Veronica lowers hers and leans forward. "I wanted Gai to know where he came from, and to have a choice. But he's made it, Logan. At least for now."

"And I've made mine; I'm sticking around. I own that choice, Veronica. I won't lay it on Gai. It's not his fault I wasn't here all these years."

A small tug of guilt pulls at her, since it was Veronica's war with Gorya Sorokin that set off the original chain of events. She takes a drink of her Coke and considers the man in front of her. Memories of the past weeks overlap with those from a lifetime ago and Lois' words come back. She wonders how well she knows this latest version of Logan.

She shakes her head. "What are _you_ hoping for? I don't see Gai changing his mind because geography's now in your favor."

"At least he'll know I didn't leave." Logan leans across the table toward her, intention underlining his voice. "Not when I had a choice."

 _Lynn._ Of course. Just as Veronica's determined not revisit the sins of her own mother, Logan won't commit those of his.

Logan bows his head. His fingernail scrapes at a divot in the tabletop. "There's more."

"More what?"

"It's not just California, I'm staying in San Diego. In fact, I put an offer on a house today."

"You—" Veronica breathes through her nose. "Where?"

"South Park, about a mile from your place."

South Park. Not Neptune or Los Angeles where he has history, but here. In _Gai's_ town, in _Gai's_ neighborhood. "No."

"It's a good house. I mean, it needs work, but—"

"I don't care. Logan, you can't live a mile away."

He nods and glances down at the table where the unused straws lie in a pool of condensation from their Cokes. He picks at one, tearing the paper. "How far, then? Five miles? Ten?" His mouth turns down in grim acceptance. "Where's my line? Whatever it is, okay," he swallows, deep. "Draw it for me."

When she doesn't say anything Logan flits his eyes her way. "Veronica, I won't call him, or come by, or anything else unless he asks me to. He'll go about his life and I'll go about mine, if that's the way he wants it. He just needs to know I'm here. That's it. I'm just here."

"That's a lot. Maybe more than he can handle right now."

It's Logan's turn to be quiet. Veronica sighs, exhaustion from the days' events making everything blurry at the edges. "Logan, can we back it up for a minute? What happens if a year goes by and Gai still refuses to talk to you? And you get sick of hopping on a plane every time you want to see your girlfriend?"

He looks out the window as the silence draws out between them. His smile, when he turns back to her, hurts to even look at. "You ever read Antoine de Saint-Exupéry?"

"Sure. _The Little Prince_."

"Among others. In _The Airman's Odyssey_ he wrote, "Love does not consist of gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction"."

The words resonate down to Veronica's bones. She and Sam saw the world the same way, wanted the same things for their lives, and she misses that sense of partnership _so much_.

"Eva and I aren't living apart. We couldn't face the same direction anymore, so we, um," Logan's mouth turns down and his words grow thick, "we broke up."

It's all too much, too fast, and she puts up a hand as if she can stop the events unraveling before her. "I don't understand. You're walking away from nine years together? Nine _years_? How can you do that?"

"She's the one that walked away."

"Why would you let her? If you guys love each other, I'm sure you can— "

"We can't," he snaps, "so stop. I don't need the FBI to solve this one."

At Veronica's pointed look, Logan runs his fingers through his hair and sighs. With his other hand he reaches out and, from long memory, their fingers twine together easily. "Sorry. It's all still raw but that doesn't give me the right to take it out on you. Or blame Eva, for that matter. I'm just pissed off at the world right now."

In the quiet Veronica studies his fingers—with nails trimmed down to the quick and freckles that speak of long hours in the sun—and marvels at the fluency that's still between their skins.

 _Is it like that for everyone?_ she wonders. When old lovers meet, and exchange a polite touch or embrace, do they all have this underlayment of awakening? A moment when every cell comes alive in recognition?

"Do you mind if we don't talk about Eva?" he asks, interrupting her reverie. "It's not why I asked you here."

Veronica squeezes his hand in silent appeasement. "I'm still not sure your moving here is a good idea. For Gai."

"What if he wasn't the only reason? The biggest, sure, but not the only one."

She pulls her hand from his and leans back. "What do you mean?"

"Not that." Logan's forlorn smirk somehow reassures her and makes her feel ridiculous at the same time. "Things are pretty well shit right now. I have to rebuild my life from scratch and could use a friend. I thought, given everything you've been through, maybe you could, too."

Countless, lonely moments of the last eight months go through Veronica's mind, compounded by years of Logan's absence. All the times she wished he were a phone call away to make stupid jokes or talk about Gai. Pressure fills her throat and damned if she isn't three seconds from crying. She sips at her Coke, hoping the cold drink will help.

Yes, Gai will be pissed; unsettled even. For a while. But a mile isn't that close, is it? A fifteen-minute walk, a five-minute bike ride. They go to stores and restaurants in that radius and rarely run into anyone they know. In truth Gai would probably be as upset if Logan was moving to Neptune or L.A..

If she wants to get technical, Logan's not a criminal—he's done nothing to deserve exile and she'll be damned if she'll name some arbitrary distance he has to keep. The boundaries he's already laid out are reasonable enough.

Besides, if twelve isn't the age to find out you're not the center of the universe, when is?

_You're justifying, Veronica._

Her eyes fix on the bottle's logo. "If you say you're staying, you have to mean it. Kids have to know who they can count on, even when they don't want to."

"I'm staying."

"Okay." She takes another swig of soda and leans forward, blaming the happy bubbles in her stomach on the carbonation. "Tell me about this house you're buying."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you, everyone, for sticking with this story and being so patient. RL has been far too adult lately so I appreciate that I get to escape into this fantasy world with you guys. As always, enormous gratitude to nevertothethird for your friendship and insight-see you in 33 days!


	22. Loving Ghosts

_Saturday, May 23, 3am_

**Veronica**

_The forest clearing is quiet, save for the distant reverberation of thunder. Veronica sinks down to a picnic blanket and roots through a basket. Inside is a bottle of chianti and two glasses, nothing else._

" _Sam? I need a corkscrew."_

" _Sam?" she calls again when he doesn't answer._

_Veronica throws the wine and glasses back into the basket where they fall into a black abyss. "Sam!"_

_The sky grays over with a coming storm. A solitary raindrop falls on the checkered blanket, darkening a faded square to deep red. Again there's thunder, a low, sustained rumble that raises the hairs on her arm._

_Ahead is a large, gnarled redwood, with a fire cavity as wide as she is tall, and Veronica runs into it. Inside, the low roof of the tree is black and smooth. From the darkness, arms wrap around her._

" _Sam," Veronica gasps, relieved._

_Outside their haven rain pours as they nestle in the quiet, listening as the growls of the storm increase. A blast of lightning illuminates the world around them. Veronica turns her head away and buries it in Sam's warm chest, her heart pounding._

_The arms around her tighten. Nails dig into her shoulder. When she looks up it's not Sam but a bear, his sharp white teeth glowing in the dark._

Veronica wakens, her body alight with flight-or-fight adrenaline. Keller sounds a low growl from the front of the house, similar to the thunder in her dream. Slatted light falls on her from the blinds above her head.

The motion sensor light.

A distant sound replaces the last vestiges of confusion with logic, and a cold sweat pours down her back.

Someone's in the garage.

Within seconds Veronica reaches the closet and removes her gun from the safe. The weight is solid comfort in her hand, antithetical to her fluttering heart. She stealth-walks down the hall, stopping for only a second to make sure Gai's door is shut.

Keller's in the kitchen, blocking the way to the garage. Veronica has to pull on the dog collar twice to move her back, then admonish her when Keller whines anxiously. The edges of the garage entrance glow in the dark kitchen.

A muffled curse follows the sounds of breaking glass. Veronica uses the distraction to disengage the deadbolt and crack open the door.

A man, she thinks, in blue jeans and worn tennis shoes, is kneeling on the floor. Boxes on a low shelf hide the top half of his body as he goes for something at the back.

With one hand she dials 911 on her phone and hovers her thumb over the send button. Her foot nudges the opening fraction wider and, with her other hand, she cocks the pistol and aims. The man stills, alert to the sounds behind him.

"Keep your hands where I can see them and stand up, nice and slow. The police are on their way."

"Jackpot," the man says, laughing. His hands come up holding a dusty, half-empty decanter of Pinch scotch. He swivels his head Veronica's way, taking in the tissue-thin tank top and cotton shorts she'd worn to bed. "Nice outfit, sis."

"Matthew. Fuck." All the air whooshes out of Veronica's lungs and she rasps for more. Her hands drop as she leans in the doorway. "I could have _killed_ you."

He ambles across the garage and up the steps. Before he steps in the house he looks down at her, his eyes bloodshot. Matthew lifts her hand holding the gun until the barrel points at his chest. "Still can."

Veronica pulls away so she can uncock and engage the safety. And get away from Matthew. Her nose burns with tang of unwashed male and Keller'whine is higher-pitched now. "What the _hell_ are you doing here? It's three in the morning."

"Couldn't sleep." Matthew brushes past her to grab a glass, his limp less pronounced tonight. He lifts the bottle in invitation, shrugging when Veronica shakes her head no, and pours a drink for himself. "Never can sleep at night anymore."

"So you thought, hey," Veronica snarks, pulling Sam's old sweater off the door and putting it on. She slips the gun into her pocket and pets the dog's head in reassurance. "I'll break into Veronica's garage and scare the _fuck_ out of her? You could have called."

"Phone's dead."

"Charge it."

"Lost the charger."

"When?"

Matthew throws back his drink and pours another, shrugging. He picks up the glass and strolls past her to the living room, turning lights on and brushing his fingers over every surface. "God, you guys are so _neat_."

With anyone else Veronica would bristle at the invasion but this is Sam's brother; Matthew spent time in these walls, too, growing up. Even if he didn't resemble Sam physically—both have athletic frames and dimples in their right cheeks—she'd recognize the energy. They both vibrate, even at rest.

Veronica flounces down into the leather, mission-style chair, Keller in her wake. The dog presses herself against Veronica's calves, though it's not clear if she's seeking or giving comfort. "Sit down, Matthew. You're making the dog nervous."

Matthew ignores her, running his fingers over the strings of Sam's guitar. The sound is discordant and he picks it up, frowning. "Poor girl. What'd they do to you?"

"Nothing." Veronica rolls her eyes, annoyed at how Sam and Matthew always personalize their instruments. "Just nobody's played _it_ in a while."

"Shh," Matthew soothes, talking to the guitar. "I'll take care of you."

"Are you high?"

"I prefer the term self-medicated," Matthew says, settling himself on the edge of the coffee table, the guitar across his lap.

"I prefer if it you showed up at my house sober."

"That," he chuckles, "is a statistical impossibility. Now shush. This girl and I need to get reacquainted."

While the late-night intrusion should bother her, Veronica can't summon up the energy. Matthew's little trouble beyond a hot shower and a few bucks to tide him over until his next VA disability check. It's when he doesn't come around that she worries.

The late hour, quiet house, and familiar strains of a guitar are narcotic. With her eyes half-closed she could almost pretend Matthew was Sam, during one of those interminable nights when a case wouldn't let him sleep. Keller settles her warm body over Veronica's cold feet and adds to the illusion.

Matthew's voice invades her fantasy, over an acoustic version of what she thinks is a 'Metallica' song. "How're the parents?"

"Fine," Veronica answers. "Both working hard but so far healthy. They'd love to see you."

"Tell them I said hi."

"Tell them yourself."

Matthew changes chords and strums harder, singing.

 _They tried to make me go to rehab_  
I said, no, no, no  
Yes, I been black  
But when I come back, you'll know, know, know  
I ain't got the—

Veronica leans forward and grabs the neck of the guitar, pressing against the strings to silence it before she lets go. "Gai's sleeping. And would rehab be such a bad thing?"

"Hey, I yam what I yam. What I'm not is going to let them waste any more money trying to fix me."

"I'll pay for it."

Matthew shakes his head and strums the guitar again, this time softly as he croons along.

 _And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me_  
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be  
Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be  
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be

"Fine." She stands, irritated with Matthew sound-tracking their conversation. "I'm going to bed. Stick around for breakfast in the morning? Gai would love to see you."

Now set on a Beatles repertoire, he morphs into 'Hello, Goodbye' without answering. Veronica stops in the kitchen long enough to dig out a spare phone charger and the grocery store and Target gift cards she keeps on hand. She lays them on the counter before heading back to bed.

_8am_

By morning Matthew's gone, along with the phone charger and gift cards. Only a wet towel on the floor of Gai's bathroom and the crumpled blanket on the couch remain as evidence he was there. She throws the blanket and towel in the washer before paddling barefoot to wake Gai; no reason to tell him about Matthew's impromptu visit.

Keller goes ahead of her, sniffing the corners of Gai's room while Veronica looks over his sleeping form. He's slept the same way since he was a baby in his crib, all wide-thrown arms and feet spread as far as the bed will allow. The kid knows how to take up space.

Veronica allows herself a moment of nostalgia since his face in repose looks so much younger than during his waking hours. Especially with the ratty, stuffed mole he's had since he was three, next to him. She steps in with thoughts of shaking him awake, maybe with the singsong whisper he loved as a little kid. And steps on a stray Lego.

"Ow! Dammit!" She hops into the room and plops down on the spare bed to rub her injured foot.

Gai blinks and rolls over, squinting into the sunlit window behind Veronica. "Hmm? Mom?"

"Who else?" she snaps.

"Whas wrong?"

"Freaking _Lego_ landmine." Her anger tempers to annoyance, then less as the pain in her foot subsides. "Where was Mr. Ness," she asks, pointing to the stuffed mole. "I thought you lost him?"

"Connie found him under the bed when she was cleaning. Left me a note." He settles an arm under his head, eyes clear and alert. "Is it time to go?"

"Soon. Weevil said if I swung by his garage before ten he'd check the radiator for me." Car problems aren't why she's going to see Weevil but the lie falls from her tongue as easy as the truthiest of truths.

"Will Felix be there?"

"Should be."

"Cool."

"You were so tired last night I didn't get to ask—how was the carnival?"

"Good." Gai plays with a yarn tassel on his blanket, dropping his eyes from hers. "Fun."

Veronica waits for more—her momdar pinging when nothing follows. The end-of-year school event is a huge affair in Gai's life every year; in the past he'd recounted the event ad nauseam, even when she was there for it.

"Hey," she sighs. "Should I have gone? I— "

He snorts. "No. You hate the school things."

"I don't _hate_ them."

Oh, but she did. The open houses and back-to-school nights were fine. She'd even whip up a batch of snickerdoodles for any bake sale. But Veronica loathed anything that involved volunteer shifts or _(ugh)_ committees. Especially now, with the overly sympathetic smiles from the other parents and no Sam whispering salty commentary in her ear.

Gai arches an eyebrow and lifts a smirk to says he knows the truth. Veronica throws up her hands in defeat. "Okay, fine. Doesn't matter. I love you more."

"It's cool Mom. I spent the whole time hanging out with my friends anyway. Did you work late?"

"No, I had something else to do." She draws in a deep breath. This conversation was going to wait for breakfast but he seems awake, and Veronica wants to get it over with. "Gai, can we talk?"

"About what?"

"Logan. It's been days since I showed you the pictures and told you all those stories." Veronica moves to sit on the end of his bed, careful not to step on any more Legos. She brushes a bit of hair off his forehead, idly logging the fact he'll require regular haircuts if he wants to keep it short. "I need to know how you're feeling."

"How'm I supposed to feel?"

"You tell me."

"I don't know." Gai settles Mr. Ness on his chest. Only three whiskers remain and he plays with these instead of look at her. "Like, I get it, everything that happened to him and why he left. But that's not my fault. Or, I don't mean fault but, um…," he trails off, frowning.

"Not your responsibility?"

"Yeah."

"No, it's not."

"So, but like, it doesn't change anything."

Veronica runs her bare toes over Keller's back when the dog settles herself on the floor. "Gai—"

He squinches his eyes closed. "Don't say my name like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're sorry and you have something bad to tell me."

"It's not bad, just probably not what you want to hear."

"What's the difference?"

While Veronica tries to think of a way to explain the distinction, Gai scoots to sit up, Mr. Ness forgotten at his hip. "Just say it," he sighs, world-weary.

"I'm trying. Look, about last night, I didn't make it to the carnival because I was with Logan. He wanted to talk, to tell me he's staying—he bought a house over in South Park."

Gai's eyes widen in surprise and his mouth drops open before slamming shut again. He slides out of bed and navigates the Lego-strewn path to his dresser with ease.

"Gai—"

He turns to her, eyes accusing. "He was supposed to go back to Chile."

"I was as surprised as you are."

Gai crosses his arms, his face a caricature of anger. "Why? Why can't he just go the hell back to his own life and leave us alone?"

"Because this _is_ his life, as much as it is yours. Logan has family and friends here, Gai, me included, who are glad to have him back."

"Well I'm not."

"Fine. But you should know you are the main reason he is staying. He respects," Veronica holds up a hand, interrupting Gai when he opens his mouth to retort, "that you don't want to see him. He just wants you to know he's here, if you change your mind."

"I won't."

"You might, if you gave him a chance."

"Not happening."

Veronica sighs, exasperated at how stubborn Gai's being as well as irritated with herself for pushing him. "Okay, fine. But we need to have an understanding, you and me."

"What?" he snaps.

"When you do see Logan—" Gia makes to walk away from her. Veronica stands and puts a hand on his arm to stop him. "I'm _not_ finished. With Logan living here and being friends with me and Dick, you have to expect your paths will cross."

Gai seethes, his eyes fixed on hers, waiting for the rest of her edict.

"When you see each other, you will treat Logan the same you would any other grownup. You don't have to buddy up to him but I will not tolerate your being rude."

"Rude," he says. His brown eyes harden as he backs toward the door. The cold, leveled hurt in them takes her back years, to before he was born. "Sure Mom. Dude crashes my life without even asking but, yeah, I wouldn't want to be _rude_ about it."

It'd almost be better if he slammed the bathroom door. The quiet way he shuts it speaks of giving up, as if he's lost a battle he never had a chance of winning.

 

_10am_

As classics go, the Dodge Dart Weevil found is a heap. Rust ate a Texas-shaped hole in the front quarter panel, rats shredded the wiring and made a nest of the front seat, and the convertible top hangs in strips. As Veronica runs a hand over it, fine black dust sifts into the car. When she opens the door, the screech of unoiled steel hurts her ears.

"At least tell me it was cheap," she says.

Weevil nods. "The things been rotting under a tarp for thirty years. My neighbor practically gave it to me. Just cost a grand."

"A grand? Seriously?"

"Hey, you find a fifty-two-year-old dame with a body this straight. That's worth something."

Matthew referring to the guitar as 'she' goes through Veronica's mind. "What makes an inanimate object a girl?"

"When they take a lot of upkeep."

Veronica rolls her eyes. "How much for the repairs?"

"Depends. You want serviceable or cherry?"

"Cherry."

"How soon do you need it?"

"Gai turns sixteen in, what, three and a half years? No hurry at all."

"That'll make it cheaper. What say five to ten grand, depending on the deals I make?"

"How much would you charge me if I was an 09er?" Veronica meets Weevil's deep brown eyes, surrounded by those gorgeous lashes no man has a right to. "If I was some trophy wife with money to burn. If I was Celeste Kane. What would you charge me then?"

He chuckles. "Celeste Kane? Thirty, easy."

"Perfect," Veronica nods. "I write you a check for thirty large and you give me back fifteen thousand cash, under the table. Which I'll repay you, a little each month, so you'll still get your payday."

"Why would I take your money?"

"Because I said the car wasn't the favor."

"Uh-huh. You gonna tell me why you need to launder fifteen thousand dollars?"

"Tell you?" she snickers. "That's not how we do things."

"No. You're a fed and I'm a legit business man. In this day and age _we_ don't break the law."

In the thirty-second stare-down that follows, Veronica holds back any commentary on how untrue that statement is, at least on his end. From her perspective Weevil's toys and hobbies are nicer than his income can justify.

Weevil crosses his arms in reluctant defeat. "Whatever you're doing, any way I can talk you out of it?"

She shakes her head. "Nope. You can only make it easier."

"You remember that and don't go playing Lone Ranger. Call me."

"Only you, Tonto."

Weevil narrows his eyes. "You're paying thirty large for a car I can get you for ten. I'm not the one who's _tonto_ , _chica._ " He leads her to his office and hands her photo albums of different paint jobs he's done on other classic cars. Fifty minutes and many decisions later she leaves with a receipt and an envelope filled with cash. Which Weevil, legit businessman, just happened to have in his hidden safe.

* * *

_10am_

**Gai**

Gai's half-sure Mom gave him money and let him go off with Felix to make things up to him. Not that she'd say so even if they were talking.

The ice cream shop is by the beach, a good half-mile from Weevil's garage. As Gai and Felix walk there, catching up, he feels light. Like a dog off a leash. Mom's never let him go farther than the two square blocks of his neighborhood without a grownup.

Felix acts like it's no big thing, though, so Gai does, too. He pays attention to how long the walk takes so he knows when they have to head back. He's got no doubt Mom meant it when she said to be back on time. No matter how pissed he is, he knows how she'll watch the clock, counting down to when she gets to worry.

On the way, Gai fingers the twenty-dollar bill in his pocket. With that much money he's thinking a sundae or banana split with extra caramel sauce. Tons of whipped cream, too. Best second-breakfast ever.

A block before the ice cream shop Felix cuts down a side street. Gai pulls on Keller's leash to stop her. "Where you going, man?"

"It's too early. I don't want ice cream."

"I do."

Felix waves a hand. "Go ahead."

"Where are you going?"

"Down to the beach."

Gai shakes his head. "They said we were supposed to come right back."

"So?"

"So? Your mom and my dad? We'll get in trouble."

"Not if they don't find out," Felix says with a grin, walking backward.

Keller sits at Gai's feet with a yawn when indecision roots him to the concrete. "Wait,"  
Gai calls. "What are we going to do down there?"

Felix throws his arms wide. "Whatever we want."

A rush of excitement runs through Gai's limbs and into his belly when he decides to follow. "We have to be back on time."

"Gai, chill out, man."

"I'm chill."

The beach is full of people—tourists and locals from Felix's part of town, given the older cars in the lot. Scattered blankets lay claim to real estate for the day while their owners play in the water.

They aren't down there a minute before Felix finds some kids he knows. Gai waves off their invitation to join in a game of football and instead kicks off his shoes and digs his toes into the sand. Within seconds his feet are hot so he leads Keller down to the water for both their relief.

Keller flattens her ears back as they get closer and she sniffs the salt air. Her whine is unsure. Gai pets and coaxes her down to the edge of surf. "Shh, it's okay. It feels good, right?"

The water rushes in, swirling around Gai's ankles. Keller trembles as she presses against his thighs, a deep whimper in her chest. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry." He leads her to the edge of the wet sand and orders her to sit so he can walk back down the water.

She's not having it. At the next surge she sniffs the air and runs in Gai's direction, putting herself between him and the wave. He spends ten minutes in the same spot, repeating, "Wave," every time the water comes their way, until she learns to anticipate it. By the time Felix heads over she's got the cues down.

"Felix, dude, watch," Gai yells. Keller stands next to him, her head cocked, listening in that funny way dogs have. Right before the water reaches her, Keller barks at it and jumps so she lands chest deep. She stays still while the wave and sand recede at her feet, her doggy grin wide and hilarious

"Nice. We gotta head back."

"Already?"

"Yeah man. They're gonna come looking for us."

"Oh, shit."

Keller, after her reluctant beach initiation, is even more reluctant to leave. Gai has to pull on her collar before she'll move.

As a cautionary measure they wash the dog off in the parking lot foot-rinse station so she won't smell like the ocean and give them away. Walking back to Weevil's shop, Gai fingers the twenty still in his pocket and stops. "Wait," he holds up the money. "My mom wants change."

"No problem." Felix ducks into a bodega, leaving Gai outside with Keller. A couple minutes later he comes out with drumsticks for both of them and holds up three fives. "We each keep one and give the third to your mom. She'll think we went to the fancy place."

Slurping on the ice cream while they walk, the thrill of being bad shifts into guilt and Gai tosses his ice cream away before he's half done.

"I overheard my mom and dad fighting," Felix says, breaking the quiet. "Got in some trouble at school, nothing big, but she thinks I should go live with her in L.A.. My dad said some mean stuff to her after that."

"Like what?"

"Like, mean."

"Do you want to live with her?"

"They ain't asking what I want."

"So tell them."

"They don't listen." Felix chin shakes like he's about to cry but his eyes stay dry. "So what? They ain't gonna listen to me, I don't gotta listen to them."

Gai punches Felix's shoulder. "No wonder you're always in trouble."

"Yeah, maybe," Felix chuckles, tagging Gai and running ahead.

Gai and Keller give chase, getting to the garage sign a good ten seconds behind Felix. The kid moves _fast_ on his short legs. Through the window Gai can see his mom and Weevil coming out of Weevil's office, still talking. When she sees him watching, she smiles in that way that says she's still sorry.

Funny thing is, he believes every time she said she was sorry the past couple of weeks. About never telling him about the Logan dude. Sorry for including everyone in the lie, even Dad.

That she's sorry for every time she screwed up, and for him learning adults don't have it all figured out, like he always thought.

Gai shrugs and looks away, unable to smile back at her. He can see it now, what Steph said about Mom being tiny. Uncle Weevil's not that big of a guy but he's still got a lot of inches and muscle on her.

"They're still talking. Wanna go set off firecrackers in the dumpster out back?" Felix asks.

"Stupid, we'll get caught."

"So?" Felix rolls his eyes. "What're they gonna do, ground us? Ooh, s _cary._ "

"Not with Keller." He fingers the money in his pocket, possibilities of future mischief sending a shiver through him. "Pay you five bucks for half, though."

* * *

_4pm_

**Logan**

With temperatures in the low eighties and the car's air conditioning on full blast, Logan should not be sweating. The built-in seat cooler doesn't work half as well as the one Eva bought him for the rattletrap pickup he owned back in Chile. The damn thing cost forty bucks and plugged into the cigarette lighter but kept his balls from marinating in their own juices. Luxury car manufacturers could learn a few tricks from the proletariat.

Veronica's house looks the same as it did a week ago. The difference today is Gai shuffling about outside, waiting for him. The kid is small, unintimidating in his ripped-knee chinos and 'Bear Hands' t-shirt, yet the sight of him dampens Logan's palms even more.

Using the tinted windows as camouflage, Logan grabs a handful of napkins out of the console to wipe off his face and hands. With a deep breath he opens the door and steps onto the sidewalk. Gai tucks his phone into his pocket and meets Logan halfway down the front path.

"Hey."

"Hey." Gai answers back with a lift of his chin. There's no invitation to come inside.

"Thanks for agreeing to see me. Should we," Logan waves a hand at the porch swing. "Do you want to sit down for a minute?"

"I'm fine here." They both ignore the low vibration of Gai's phone.

"Okay. I—"

"Can I go first?" Gai interjects before Logan has a chance to speak.

"Um, sure. Of course."

Gai's brow draws and he looks right at Logan, like he's making himself do it. "I'm sorry I was such a jerk to you at dinner last week. I should've just had Mom tell you not to come."

"Hey, you wanted to tell me to stay away to my face. I can respect that."

"Cool."

"Cool." Logan repeats and scratches the back of his neck. "Is that still how you feel?"

Gai pulls his shoulders back and nods. "Yeah."

"Well." Logan clears the thickness from his throat. "That doesn't make what I have to say any easier."

"Mom already told me you're moving here."

"Okay. Did she tell you why?"

Gai's shrug and tightening around his eyes says Veronica did tell him.

"You should still hear it from me. Gai, it means something to me, that you're my son. I don't expect to be your dad," Logan clarifies before the kid can object. "Sam was your dad and I'm nothing but grateful to him for that."

Gai holds his stare a moment before shifting it away. "You don't owe me anything—I get that. Kids don't owe their parents. I can't fall into your life and expect to be your father. I'm not sure I'd even know how. What I'm hoping for is we can find some middle ground."

"Like what?"

Logan crosses his arms, hoping to hold his beating heart in his chest. "Forget the labels—father, son. We could just hang out, you know? Get to know each other without trying to define it."

It's not what Logan wants. A Hallmarkesque montage plays in his head, full of surf lessons, deep-sea fishing dates, and long talks about the meaning of life. But he'll settle for a cheeseburger and polite conversation.

"Here." Logan digs a folded slip of paper from his pocket and holds it out. "This is my new address, or will be soon. Until then I'm at a hotel nearby. The hotel name and number, and my cell on are on here, too."

Gai eyes the paper and shakes his head, his expression steely.

It takes four deep breaths through his nose before Logan trusts his voice not to shake. Of all the rejections he's received in life, this cuts the deepest. "Take it. That way every day you don't call me I'll know it's because you don't _want_ to. Not because you don't have the number."

It's a mixed victory when Gai considers that option, then takes Logan's contact info, tucking the paper into his pocket. "That it?"

"Almost. Last thing is that I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. So if you change your mind or if you need anything… whenever and for whatever, okay? Will you please remember that?"

The noncommittal shrug is better than outright refusal, and Logan grasps at it by sticking out his hand for Gai to shake. "Thanks for seeing me."

Gai wrinkles his forehead and eyes Logan's hand like it's a diseased snake he's asked to hold. He squares his shoulders, though, and puts his hand inside Logan's.

The hand Logan grips is small, and warm. It contains a child's fragile strength, with the promise of more to come.

These are the fingers he should have counted at birth, the hand he should have held crossing the street. Regret and frustration war side-by-side with wonder; it's the first and maybe only time Logan will touch his son.

Gai's cell buzzes again. He pulls his hand from Logan's to retrieve his phone, glances at the screen, and nods a dismissal. "I gotta go."

 _Where?_ Logan wants to ask. He knows little of Gai's life, the priorities that would pull him away and hasn't earned the right to ask. "Okay," he says instead. "Thanks again, for listening."

Within seconds of Gai's leaving, Veronica's in the doorway, watching him. Logan musters a disingenuous half-smile for her sake. "Well, that could've gone better."

"Could've gone worse." Veronica plops down sideways on the front step with a sigh, her back against the porch post, and tilts her head at the empty space in front her, in invitation. "If it's any consolation, he's mad at me, too. Thinks I'm partly to blame for your moving here."

"Shit. Sorry." Logan says, sitting so they're facing each other.

"No worries. We'll figure it out."

Logan envies her breezy confidence. It's not something he's felt in any relationship. The closest he ever came was with Eva. "Where's Gai off to?" he asks, to change the subject.

"Fish's, then a camp-out in Mike's backyard." She nods at his car, her lips twitch in amusement. "I didn't know Maserati made SUVs."

"They don't for the masses," he jibes. "But if I'm driving a Hyundai how will anyone know I'm special?"

"I thought that's what personalized license plates were for?"

He smacks a hand to his forehead. "Where were you before I dropped ninety grand?"

Veronica smiles, small, and shakes her head. "If you were looking to blend here in the 'burbs, you may have missed the mark."

She's right. The cars on her street are of a more pedestrian make, including the Kia SUV in her driveway. Logan exhales heavily and shakes his head, sure the chagrin shows on his face. "At the time I was thinking less about blending and more about how much Eva would hate it. She thought anyone who bought a car like that had more money than sense."

"Ah. So you've hit the anger stage."

"It comes and goes."

"Have you talked to her since she left?"

"I sent her an email—just said 'It's Logan—here's my new number.' Got a 'thumbs up' emoji back. Words aren't coming too easy to either of us right now, I guess."

"Logan, I'm sorry."

"Well," he sighs, picking a pebble off the step and tossing it into the flowerbed by the house. It takes a couple breaths to push past the pain in his chest. For years Eva was the only one he could talk to and now…, he shrugs. "In the immortal words of Sinatra, that's life."

Veronica's nice enough to hold back any prosaicisms. It's the best he could ask for, the quiet agreement that sometimes life just sucks.

Keller wanders out to the porch, sniffs them both, and lays down between Logan and Veronica, her head on Veronica's knee. Logan scratches the dog's shoulder, stopping when she tenses and shifts away from his hand. "I'm not very popular around here, am I?"

"I've always considered you an acquired taste."

"Gee, thanks."

She grins. "Chin up. Charlotte called. Sounds like she's ready to take you under her wing."

"That's not ominous. I'm supposed to head up there for dinner. Should I back out?"

"Nah. Charlotte only takes up causes she believes in."

"I'm a cause?"

"To Charlotte, everything's a cause."

"Great." He leans back against the porch pillar behind him. "Wanna come with me? Sounds like I could use the moral support."

"I'm busy, thanks."

Logan knows about as much of her life as he does of Gai's. "What are you up to?"

Her hands thread in and out of the dog's fur. Veronica's answer, when it comes, is a beat late. "A case."

"On Saturday night?"

Her eyes meet his with a closed-mouth smile. "Criminals don't keep business hours. Speaking of which, I need to get going." She stands, dislodging the dog. "Keep me posted on the move?"

"Sure."

Through their goodbye and half the drive to Dick's house, Logan can't name the uneasy feeling in his stomach. It's not Gai—he knew what he was walking into there. Nor is it Dick and Charlotte; the prospect of dinner with an old friend and his wife has him excited, not nervous.

No, it's Veronica. During their taqueria dinner the night before she said she was doing grunt work until her finger healed. Now she's, what? On a stakeout? Undercover?

And it's the _way_ she smiled at him, tight and guarded. Like back when they dated and she gave him only the vaguest details on her detective work. Especially when she was onto something dangerous.

Logan crosses over to the far right lane with thoughts of getting off at the next exit and turning around.

_Paranoid much? Or, wait, is this a relapse of your white knight syndrome?_

_With her it's never paranoia._

_Then you better find a church. Light a candle and thank God for the miracle Veronica Mars survived without you the last thirteen years._

He passes by the exit, and the next one, hands tight on the wheel.

Does he need to be needed that badly? Enough to manufacture reasons? Veronica's a grown woman, a highly trained agent of law enforcement, and a cop's wife. She knows what she's about. Even if there is a situation, with the entirety of the FBI and the SDPD at her disposal Logan is the last person she'd call.

He merges back to the middle lane. Better to stop imagining things and get his own shit together. Nobody needs a _cause_ mucking up the works when they're trying to rebuild their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enormous gratitude goes to nevertothethird, for the lightning-fast beta she did so I could put this chapter out today, and for bringing such clarity to every detail. Huge thanks, as well, for everyone who has commented, favorited, and given kudos to this story since the last update. You guys keep me going toward that finish line.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hats off to nevertothethird for betaing and encouraging me to go with this idea

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] Haunted](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2544272) by [silvergrrrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvergrrrl/pseuds/silvergrrrl)




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